The mountains are slowly dying
from lack of light while you and I
search for our twins through a dark
empire of anomalies. I am like the frost,
reluctant to touch you.
A ragged cottonwood rocks in its own arms
and fragments of rebuilt days
fall into vortices of shale and amber.
We are strangers. This is
the last dismay of the season.
Where do words go when they get tired
of being spoken and October’s cold tongue
approaches the grove of deciduous nipples?
Leave a Reply