David Chorlton

Detour
			
Desert night on city streets, stars
and taillights, midnight hum
and dreaming wheels. Time’s brakes
don’t work when it’s intent
                                                   on reaching
Thursday morning fast as it can run
ahead of the police. Moonlight skidding
at the on-ramp, the loneliness
of cars in the dark,
traffic signals asking why the argument
broke out;
                   gunshots answer
that it doesn’t matter it’s the way it ends
that counts. Crack, crack
along the freeway, wheels
can’t keep up with the bullets. A few rounds
saved for the car wash
                                          with no one
to witness the scene or to place
a blessing hand
on the dying woman’s brow. All mystery
from here: sunrise, road blocked,
the urban waking
                                 with mockingbirds
to guide the detoured traffic
with their songs.

Casey

There’s a Sunday kind of silence draped
along the street.
                              Hawk high
and circling where shadows can’t reach.
An inner thought is rattling
and can’t get out.
                                It’s winter in the mind,
memories iced over. No beginning to them,
and no end. And though it feels
Rembrandt dark inside
                                            its other face
is Bonnard bright. The nearby mountain
leans back lightly
on the sky,
                   Vermilion Flycatcher
in a mesquite at the park, March weather
on a February day, and the dog
in his stop, sniff world
                                         has a nose for truth.
He lifts a leg to leave a bookmark
where the sun beams down chapter
and verse about the lilies
of the fields.

No Direction Home  

Along the riparian path where it winds
a few yards from the river
between the winter branches scratched
on the haze in industrial Phoenix
is a man sitting with his dog and an empty Modelo
can beside him as he talks
                                                  on his cell phone
about a matter seemingly of great
importance regarding his continued
survival. A tiny waterfall
reminds this zone what the land
used to be while verdins
busy themselves preparing
for spring. Please hold, and then the notes
play to say
                   Someone will be with you soon
while the background flow speaks
to the trees and the trees
speak to the ambient temperature this last
day in February. A stony curve, an uphill
step, and out of common sight
a wooden frame draped
with blankets
                         built as far
from government as any man can reach.
It’s quiet here, except for
scraps of birdsong. Reception seems good.
Still waiting for a voice. Bicycle leaning
on the makeshift bench. No need to worry:
he doesn’t bite.	
				
            

David Chorlton lives in Phoenix with his animals inside the house watching those outside in and around the yard. When ideas come his way, he likes to paint, with watercolor being his favorite medium because it has a life of its own and demands a special relationship with an artist, much as language makes its own demands on poets.