It was cold that day,
in late December, in 1965,
when the north wind storm bounced the car
and us inside it,
and cracked the clouds
and shook loose it’s moisture.
We sat there,
in our cozy privacy.
I sat there,
paralyzed from the temple down, and
enchanted by the sight of her knees, and
fearful of her coming words.
A mouth full of lava slipped down my throat.
Wavering specters danced upon the pavement.
The raindrops pelted the rooftop
then relaxed toward the ground.
I watched them,
That site and sound again has passed before me
wrenching my focus, dislodging the glaucos sordes.
The sound I heard at age 17,
the sound of empty promise.
That sound again,
Of jetsome thoughts,
exhumes echoes fluid in form:
“Don’t change.” She said. “Please, don’t ever change.”