The Falling Bride
Last night I drove past the seedy bars
with yellow stucco walls, and the Dairy Queens,
and left behind the streetlamps casting
archipelagoes of light, to drive
an unlit highway. Asphalt and rubber hummed
until I pulled off, gravel crunching beneath
my tires the last mile to the open field.
Standing alone among the acolytes clumped in twos and threes,
I saw the comet, a pale smudge on the eastern sky,
like a bride falling headlong.
She's thrown away her bouquet in disappointment.
Her desires, that had bloomed
at the dream of that incandescent wedding bed,
scatter like wind-blown ashes.
Her body, unneeded now, is her translucent veil,
while all her layered hopes plummet burning to the sun.