Sketches of a Season
Amber Ridenour

bombed on cherry cider
I could run in all directions

If I spread out my coat
I could have taken off

framed in massive punishment
from traffic lights and fender guff

your boots unlocked
with buckshot gestures I remember

faced with the significance
of fire in its fullness

fandangoed wraps of smoke
to mean, Not Me, Not Me

'It's your wife on the phone'
-- like a tack in the hand

crushed like a flower
I headed for the door

celluloid sketches of the obvious
clabbering into the persistent night