Darken the page and fill the pot,

one in hope, the other punishment,

just to see desire fall to pieces—

I spy with my witch’s eye

a driver gunning uphill in the rain.

Try as I might, scry all my might,

he’s gone beyond my shining and protection.

---

We started under June stars, elderflower

and gin. Intention to the incidental contact

and later to the imitating touch.

He had cast the spell, I’d say,

while shining on him images of me,

tying dreams with silver filament

round the soft and unsuspecting brain,

like silk around the wriggling hopper,

wriggling til the muscle, green and vital, 

crushes captive to be tapped for apple juice.

Think of me. I wanted his blood

to beat with mine. And it beat,

but only for summer.

---

I wish I could see value in the loss.

I wish I’d feel the blessing of our moment.

I wish I’d known enough when was enough,

and not wound up a witch in love and trouble.

It keeps me up to know his sleep is sound,

wherever he’s parked for the night. It goes to show

the witch is not the haunter. Never was.

She tries, and scries, and shines on him to come

while the asphalt races underneath the lights

like dust on an antiquated film.