–after the 1967 Arthur Penn film
Their penance—not yet exacted—
Warm wind, from the open
windows of the pulled-over
canary-yellow Model A Ford.
Clyde flipping the radio dial.
Static. Insects. Chirping.
His shit-eating smile. Silence
sparking through sunlight—
but for a rush of starlings
entrained with the dapple-lit couple
as if—like the fiddlers and floating
brides of Chagall they could lift
through the trees, out of their bodies
just after their moment of fleeting
and before it morphed
into slow-mo crash-test dummies,
choreographed rag dolls—
such rustle and shuffle
under that blue-banged & damn
beautiful sky. Wind again
too, before the bucolic-bulleting
backdrop took our breath away.
I remember reaching in the dark theatre
for my friend’s hand—
As more birds tolled.