•   •   •
Come When the World Cracks Open 
Come when the world cracks open.
Come to where the old road written on the land
in crests and cradles
draws lightly aside for elder trees.
It does not have the job of slicing
from property

Come in the backlit glamour of morning
when datura has not furled her moist trumpets.
Sycamores cleave stone
to raise their spiky cloud of exultation, wrens
drape song across the air.
Here, in the democracy of light, each pebble
      is equally real.
                                                       Carol Haralson
                                                        from At the Far End of O Street

They never shot family movies — too bourgeoisie, too self regarding. 
Too needy of our attention. Too false. Too creepy. Too real.
To implant their image on the future, they depended upon 
photographs in leather albums or upon the bar or the Steinway 
in silver frames — frames that were cleared away when a
 hired trio or a guest with sufficient skill merited the lifting 
of the lid to allow the instrument full breath.
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