How he had hoped his words might
turn a smile, eyes cast down to rise
and meet somewhere beyond
with something new to share. But
she hid her face behind her hand
instead – as he stared off, pursing
lips into a silent whistle, picturing
it all again, replaying and weighing
each enunciation, wondering why
space between their horses grew.
Portraits, not wide-looped long-shots,
but up-close expression zoomed
across the pen through loose reins, tight
ropes and smoke to the peripheral asides –
faces to later read between the lines.
February 6, 2011
drycrikjournal 