A Story

In the beginning it was

naked, rainy nights with Ali Farka
juts and pinches in the chords
volumes in every breath.
Mornings were spent
spent in my cramped apartment
steeped in wet lilacs I’d picked
and black coffee, some Peggy Lee.

In the middle it was

patterns, all patterns
familiar maps, familiar shifts
the monotone ‘I love you’.
Cat Stevens lay hushed in a box,
sleepy but not as asleep
as the older Lady Day.

In the end it was

the compilation of all
those nights you jolted awake
from a dream of falling–
eyes wide open in a strange bed,
remembering who you were;
Driving away in the night
letting Bob Dylan speed up the truth.