The Axe

Light’s embrace so soft, it is hard to trust that life is wrong. Ani di Franco on the cheap cd player. Tinny speakers make her, somehow, into water’s flow. None of this is real. The pretty houses bought on credit. A vast mist descends. I swallow large gulps of this life. I call you across the wires. You always answer. This scares me. I know there is a space for music to play soft as light, and dedicated. You fragment into particulars I don’t trust: I don’t believe a word of it. Here’s the next installment of the cancelled show. I hold the axe.  If the revolution is on television now? Freedom stalls, like a car stalling, bathed in soft northern hemisphere light, in the dawn of a perfect day. I suspend disbelief to exit it.