THE DEVICE
On the couch he could admit his obsession
with the illegal logarithms scrawled
on lampposts—the way they revealed
the quivering silver of a shaky hand
much in the way a woman’s red hat
becomes the focal point around which
an entire plateau can be organized.
If he could, he’d brush the cinders
from her knees. He is alone and full
of questions, wondering how he can take
the fifth while standing on a lip of scree,
wrapping and unwrapping her hands
with his mind, a proud new owner.
Copyright © Heather June Gibbons. White Whale Review, issue 1.3