where cliffs are books, their titles deep in the mountains by Glenn Ingersoll

Where the story begins depends upon where you end up.
A loaded rifle lounged beside the door, a broom inside the mask.
I’m sorry I left you with the dead, the letter before the window opened.
Out of hard twigs, a soft shock.

The letter was rudely constructed, of scratched steel.
The water in the bottom of the ship sloshed around the rose.
I must have been your child. I quashed all debate.
Each thought pierced with a wire, a blue one or a red.

The petal, dropping, circled the foreign stem.
A sock with a hole in the heel ever in search of its mate.
He saw two rainbows but no one saw rainbows like he saw rainbows.
The body has plans and will carry them out.

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