The
Alibi
She
was dressed in wild honey,
standing
motionless where the road
rose
into the biscuit glaze of hills.
The
world was heat shimmer,
cleaver-swipe
angles in the distance
evaporating
as I watched.
I
noticed most of the sky
slipped
into the scraggy juniper gorge.
Henna
tattoo, filigree ankle flower—
I
noticed clouds in her posture.
Salt,
its taste and texture,
grinds
in the teeth.
Other
evidence is circumstantial, sunstroke events
placing
probability
within
the process of free will.
The
sky was baked blue. As you know,
she
was dressed in wild honey.
Most
of this I confirmed later in writing.
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