Night Train redux

BETCHA BY GOLLY WOW

(for Phyllis Hyman)

Whose blue wail could this be rising alone,

whose sapphire necklace of loose knitted notes

circling the sky past dusk1? Whose low hum quotes

from the clinking undertones of a thrown

bottle that sinks or floats in Becks Run’s stream

& sighs “If I could” through its whistled woes,

pulling bipolar box cars in its flow,

exiting St. Clair Village under steam2?

Oh Phyllis, how your lips puckered with flair,

barely brushing my naked neck those nights

with May lilacs of radio melody

 before June’s rain. How did we miss your prayer

turning to flutter3 or flare, your silk kite

tugging at its cord, dying to twist free?

——————————————-

1 last train her mascara still running

2June evening  between police lights  fireflies

3 on the shoulder of a pall bearer  a butterfly