i place my hand on this drift.

This scene is what it is: acquainted. I rest like old rusty coins at the bottom of that lake.

Burrowed into the bottom of a mechanic's jacket,

but that's not who gave it to me

(this is not a love story).

It's novel and fitting like our professor's leather suitcase

but with the latch unbuckled and flapping as he walks.

I could lay on the back of the couch this afternoon,

feel the back vertebral column synchronize my spine

and be still.

Yesterday, when I sat stroking the skeleton of a fan,

I remembered the pearl cufflink I found on the windowsill,

rare like an owl feather.

O keep us from the flash of the world.

Unbend, unbend, and hinge;

This pleads raw and organic and unconcealed.

a lone bulb wrung from a power line,

shattered under the weight.

But the shards have a pulse.

They're beating on the ground.

© Lauren Bernhagen 2010