return to scene of the crime

Your hand, the dark percussion
of steel strings and creaky old wood
pencil can be erased.

These chords sing—
of hope, possibility, taking me up
on wings of diamond glass, brittle.

These thunderclouds have silver linings
if our bodies survive the ice and electricity
cleansed by the storm.

Silky voice, don’t stop
I’m too high to come down
Vancouver pavement still too hard.