Steve Trebellas
Everything Rises From Here

She brags she kills the demon of loneliness,
but has her youth and appeal. She can drop
her fight with boredom, or take it up at will.
Her domain: high ceilinged—tall as is wide—
and room for a human aura to fill.

Everything rises from here: rivers meet,
a tangle of bridge, ramp, vacant hotels,
a population missing. Outside, trains couple—
it's late, no cross-traffic interferes. Streets
curve adjacent to roofs. Something's at the door—

it's the rest of my night, now just breeze
and a torn rag of sky. I want the punk-end
to walk through parts so quiet they're unreal—
the rut and ruin of a long-dead city beast—
everything flushing East to a place I keep
without record. I have no luster, no career.

My protégé's eyes have blue abundance, but
her demons are unreal. Those empty rooms,
all surgeries of old wars, an essence
that sweats through—turns liquid as the night air cools,
stains bricks, and uprights in languished color.

I follow the Platte East—its system of tongues.
All arguments end. I drain with it,
blend so well, that when my wife drives by—
eyes dilated and cold—she doesn't see me.
Her cheating less to me now that I know she's found

a way to manage her night. My life rushes back
to fill the wake of her Ford—a yellow oil-burner—
a poor girl's long-owned hack. The tired clack
of motor pinballs up through pylons, guardrails,
lattice, fades, and I wish her all she does
does not reveal.