his limestone thoughts are deep as the flooded quarry,
clouded as its water after a hard rain.
He passes a hand across his chin, the stubble
more salt than pepper now. Powdered with dust,
the squad car expresses his exhaust:
donuts sugar its dash,
a half-moon of ice wanes
in a Styrofoam cup of bourbon.
An officer inspects her French manicure,
then stretches a latex glove to its limits.
Pages of her notebook flutter
in a failed attempt to fly from her pen.
Socks lose their grip on the pale fact of shins.
Boot prints brim with ruin,
near the quarry's milky shoreline.
The hands of a watch meet at noon:
a face goes blank,
another loses its color
as a dark figure floats to the water's surface,
becomes tangible, like the sun's mouth, open
right before it bites through the overcast.
