Two-Day Plink

Wires of dove sent me a plink.

Two days ahead.

I was there.

A text of words,

unscrambled but jumbled.

Steel-stiff and gray.

*

I arrived with an hour to kill.

Led to the stall by a woman who saw.

She saw my need before the word.

I was fixed.

Unscrewed from the girder.

My burden flakes like rust on a rail.

Unbutton my bullet-proof vest.

*

I climbed the waterfall.

Up the hill from Road of Roads.

Salt and water in my bag.

Porridge-thin and climbing.

My Soreen stayed clinched.

Salt-sting on my tongue.

Up that hill the birds chirped.

Up that hill the doors broke.

A scrub of blue in the seat.

The man kept his head down.

His chin once pinned.

He sat and pointed.

He did not follow.

*

I followed his words.

Slotted in my head.

The path I reserved.

Days and days ago.

*

I opened my legs in the dark-mind bright-room.

But the face of the scanner-girl

was a fit flask.

It hid words.

“Nothing can be seen,” she said.

The words were cold-cut and few.

Nothing was seen.

Yet I was meant to wait while time clotted.

*

Wires of doves sent me a plink.

I was linked by two days.

I dared not have trodden there.

Unscrambled the words.

Snapped their lock.

I dealt myself

my own hand.