Girl, Receding Poem by Jack Oates

Can I see you now?
Can I?

Here, and then not.
A flicked switch that brought the night
under the eaves.
But where did you go
when the spring flipped the cam
and cut off the flow?

Farads fall from a burning wire
and I am drawn to you.
I bump my muzzle on the glass
with a plink-plink.
Just a silhouette, you are,
bleeding into the tungsten hum.
I am blinded to the future -
a tented seer
with an imprint of you on my palm.

Can I see you now?
Can I see?

Ah. I see you now.
Pressing lightly on the Mojave air;
Dustball rolling into purple shade
as the sun sighs behind the rocks.
It leaves me counting stars
until the numbers run out
and coyotes rush in.

Sandstone streaks upon your pallid thighs -
mirrored rust of long iron miles;
bell rung railroads
that rocked you down
from those Toytown malls
and neat, new fingers
to this quiet, prairie dog reverie.
I have known those lines before -
swaying in an amber skin
with a clickety-clack,
heartbeats belting from a distant foundry
as you wrestle
with your burning ore.

Can I see you now?
Can I see you?

Wait.
I see you anew.
Standing mute in all ballroom swirl-
beautifully choked like a drawstring purse.
Glitter stuck to your puckered cheek;
a Bowie streak upon your brow.
Beneath, a look
that says: the dance will be slow
but short
and your heels will wear down
before the bowstring sheds
the last of its mane.

Whispering mirrors made shards of poor chivalry.
Callouses on cuts, smoke in the lamplight.
A yearning from a distant siren.
A hushed swansong melody.
Scuffed soles brush your tender toes;
the white noise of the waltz grows quiet.
The darkness swallows you,
and you slither into silence.