Tourmaline Haze

Yes, these are the last days...

Photo by Emerson Peters on Unsplash

Tourmaline Haze

these are the last days
     rattling over rubble, 
the worn ruins, 
and pale casualties 
of the war between
truth and desire,
heaven and
(dare I whisper?) hell

hands entwined,
     we walk the gray dusty road
south into a green gloom,
planning the garden 
and a wedding feast

the inky darkness of our
rewritten history looms
behind us, a fanged creature,
     malformed,
fetid breath on my neck

rising before us,
a lion scratches at the 
     ash, turns toward 
the emerald clouds

Yes these are the last
days, stretched tight and
     overloaded like telephone
wire wheezing in the 
lonely wind

with song and woodsmoke,
     we stave off gray creatures
tapping against the fragile 
              window panes

these are days of longing,
     empty stomachs and 
     yawning hearts, reaching for
mirage rising, 
dissipating, like tendrils 
of steam
     above depleted soil
and dreams

we dance, knotted together, 
a tottering waltz
     into the tourmaline haze,
whistling, whistling, 
     lumbering toward the 
final day

---

Sean Downing, poet, musician, teaches high school English and Theater Arts in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. He can often be found in his woodshop, coaxing music from odd scraps of junk, or haunting the trout streams around southwest Colorado. If you see him, don't tell anyone: they're probably looking to get an honest day's work out of him.

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