Golden Hour
By Huan He
My hand out the car window:
the plains carry me home in their
stillness, everywhere are open palms
of wheat-yellow. Between each
telephone wire, I undress my
memory to when he saw the sky and
land touch in prayer, the birds
flying in the shape of a quick fuck.
That foolish, foolish boy branded by
yellow at golden hour before
slipping into a black suit—the night,
paparazzi with readied eyes flashing
again, to see him. And I see him.
The prayer never returns, answered.
The day is a trick. A dirty, dirty trick.
