Indiana



this place where the streets run long and cold

and the skeiny trees rattle all night long

against the ancient dew

of her window pane



the medieval sprawl of this place

incongruous at such a distance

of cornbread

meridian



here the night air

seems to always be moving

like the boy's eyes cherishing

her chiaroscuro hair



like the girl's heart

cherishing

the rising red

demolition



of twilight