–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
eye-contact caught—
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.
