For the Town and the Forest, and the Girl Wrapped in Plastic
Let the Douglas firs stand sentinel, their needles whispering secrets of the sawdust and the mill.
Let the logs speak, for they have seen the generations rise and fall, and hold the memory of the axe.
Let the traffic light blink its single useless eye where the ordinary meets the owl,
And let the girl wrapped in plastic, a cameo in the cold, wet mouth of the river, be the question mark that bends the whole world out of shape.
The coffee is hot, and as black as a moral quandary, cherry pies cut in perfect angles of small-town solace,
But the sweetness sours the tongue when you see the giant, or the man with a log for a soul, or the dwarf who peaks in tongues of backwards fire.
The air smells of pine and diesel, of burnt pastry and something else, something organic and wrong, a sweet, fungal rot in the in the wood’s dark heart.
Glide, Plastic Girl, on your borrowed angels,
Dwell in the shadow of the ceiling fan fan’s slow spin,
The trembling is everywhere, in the flicker of a neon sign, in the jump-cut of a dream, in the way a kind Sherrif's brow furrows at the edge of the known world.
Here is an agent, a good man, who loves his coffee black and his mysteries slow-brewed.
Here is a father, his grief a raw electric socket.
Here is a roadhouse, where the music is always just sad enough to dance to, and the drape runners are always just out of frame.
Look! The young pines sway, agitated, by the powerlines.
Look! The cream corn is not just corn, and the ring of Saturn is not just a ring.
Look! In the red room, the curtains part for a one-armed man to preach of the owl was not what it seemed,
And in the black lodge, doppelgangers wear our faces like ill-fitting suits.
We are searching for a killer, but the killer is a part of the place, a splinter in the timber,
We are searching for a meaning, but the meaning is in the grain of wood, in the silent screams of the saw blade.
We are searching for a girl, but the girl is everywhere now, in the wind, in the trees, in the frozen face of her father’s house.
The owls are not what they seem.
The woods are full of eyes.
And in the town, there’s always music in the air.
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