Year of writing 154.

The night fell hard, taking her by surprise
she peeled her fingers from the keys
ironed the crooks from her knuckles
against the flesh of her thigh, arched
her back to a crackling chorus of vertebrae,
and sighed.  The exhalation took shape;
dark and looming, the face of her father,
a bull, the devil.  We heard the laugh from
outside on the lawn. It was bright.  It was clear.