Lady in Lace

I snap open the window
of the small airplane tipping to and fro,
and see the Sierra mountains.
Clouds pull across the craggy peaks like
a bride’s veil on a windy day,
her lips rocking up and down,
her eyes a drought of tears.
Hooves on stones drive
towards the white church
where a river once ran.
Some miles away, snow-knotted socks
lay upon a coal burning stove
as melted water taps onto fresh pine floors.
Fool’s gold rattles in a rusted pan,
falling between dirty fingers,
which grapple the breast of a whore
and long for the lady in lace
who he will never marry
since she is now with another.
I shut my window,
and the plane passes over
these time-trapped shadows.

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