Just home from work
and I'm still not quite here.
When it was morning,
I walked out on Tracy's simmering mood
and into her thick June sky.
The elephant's trunk hangs from a cloud
In sepia, it seems
there can be no explanation, but a dream
Scale out of whack -- no longer confined, no turning back.
In color,
smooth rampage just born.
The trunk flails and takes aim.
Storms through the corn,
coming for me to reconcile the blame.
I'm still not quite here.
In the afternoon,
as Tracy's sky dims to deathly grey and ghostly white,
I ran back to her worried eyes and reflected them back.
And directly, the stampede consumed my regret.
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