That afternoon, Sam stood restlessly beneath the awning of Melanie's front porch, legs apart. The air was very silent and peaceful, and one lone bird chirped sporadically in the field behind the house. The air was stiff and hot, and it seemed to Sam that it was taking her an awfully long time to answer the door. Melanie was inside, brushing her hair one last time. The heat had ruined the curl and caused her to be moody and depressed. She had sweated through the armshields of her chiffon coat dress, and now would have to wear the coat to cover her stains. Hurriedly, she slipped it on and with, a final check in the mirror, ran to the door. The door creaked once loudly as it opened. For a moment after she answered they didn't say a word. They only waited and looked into each other's eyes. Terrible fear lingered inside each of them, and at last Sam broke the silence as he uttered, "Howdy, babe." Melanie looked closely at his straw hair, and the ugly patched suit he wore. Back in Seattle they wouldn't have heard of such a thing. Sam began to get nervous. She hadn't said a word to him yet. Melanie eyed his face, the crooked teeth, the honest John look of stupidity, the long face and neck. "Are you okay, hon?" Sam asked, humbly. Melanie looked up at the hinge on the open door, and scowled. "Yes I am," she said. "Only I don't feel so good." Sam waited, expecting to hear more on the subject. "I reckon I oughtn't not to go, you know, with the headachy feelin' I got." Beneath the peaceful exterior of the man an untried, immature rage pressurized, slowly and imperceptibly shredding down, one by one, the countless layers of carefully conserved patience. The intense yellow sun roasted on the back of his neck, nullifying his senses, and the crack- ling silence rang like a pounding throb in his ears. Melanie chewed on her left forefinger, which hung weakly from her reddened mouth. "What is the matter?" he demanded, bristling with rage. Startled at his tone, Melanie meekened. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing's the matter. I just don't feel good." The fierce sun withered her as the thought pricked I can't fool him, he knows, he knows. Wrenching the door open suddenly, Sam snatched her arm and jerked her out onto the porch. "Melanie," he said loudly, "I am not kiddin'. What's the matter?" She peered up at him timidly, the flaming sun flinging waves of heat at her like rays of interrogation. "I don't love you any more." Silence paused between them for an instant and then in one swift, unearthly movement took flight forever. "What did I do, what did I do," he repeated, not really asking. "I should have told you sooner, I guess," she said, "but I couldn't-I wasn't sure you know." "Yeah I know," he said. "Can I do something, I mean, to change things? I mean, is this the end? Sam squinted up at the chipped paint of the door frame. "Yeah I think it is," he heard her say. A thick, empty void stretched between them. "I reckon we oughtn't not to see each other any more, after all this," she said. "I reckon not," said Sam. "Well, I'll be seein' ya then," she said. "Okay," he said. As the door shut the hinges moaned, and Sam heard hollow steps walking away into the house. His feet seemed to be locked to the porch, and deep inside he felt a hard, sharp pain of loss. He waited for maybe ten seconds, suffocating in the raw, parching sun, and then turned and hobbled slowly down the steps. Putting his legs in motion, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck and headed for the dead end. peace HARLOW TURK 1. several imaginings preoccupy downsystem beliefs in total us words of light reason dropped in sea pretty reasons become us make us pretty to all but darkest eyes unbidden you wheelchair laughter wheeling jerky gravel time units past my N-bomb understanding cools with laughter fortune becomes us not 2. all time declare we temporal well-wishers unquiet say upon us words to meanings insensitive stenciled times form suddenly beneath peace belch-boweled rivers redrun all to sea-impotent fording time conscious strain release all but most pain dead are with us seeking home deceptively fornicating among 3. can not sewers contain us rhymes and portraits pristine mean us sharp shovels bisect pretty souls words hang flow melt in murmured air dead sing floating nimbly acrobatic until peace drops smashing future atonal afternoons ways have been many songs brush damp bristles us us stars are with us not