No. 3

Fall 2002

Ghosts hover only so long --

Soon, a face in the ashtray's surface,
a profile of your birthmark --

Finally, their humid bodies
settle on shoulders --

They had shouldered
it for you -- the masses of water,
monsoon clouds --
the lightning snap in late August dusk --
but now you see them, their dust whirlpools --
the circular tunnels of dirt in this town --

The sky is clear right now, but there's no sweet meaning
since your shirt is soaked,
the lines in your hands making bolts --

Those spirit voices,
so discernible at first, now your voice,
just your voice -- breathe the road clear --
breathe the road clear -- and
the highway becomes a light, no shadows --

The coyote off the pavement stares you down,
then runs --
you pick up the lip of road, lift it
like fabric, waves from the wind --
it is a flag. Step underneath,
walking away.

Copyright 2002, Robert Krut

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.