With starshine beaming from beaded eyes,
I could only nod and grin,
while aspiration and sworn sorrow disintegration
rained upon me.
Anna killed future Septembers with a promising
ring in newly righteous hand.
In rabbit trails she talked --
high fashion and porcelain skin,
but like all rabbit trails,
most of the stories ended with a dead rabbit.
Anna still entertained my company
despite the gleam of my once longing glance
burning out light years ago.
Healthy, we.
Settling, sea.
Sailing, no.
Drifting, yes.
Purely bruised.
Sighing in dream.
I'd follow Anna into the rabbit hole.
I'd feast on
her mouth wet with honey.
I'd sleep in the milk
of her skin.
I'd happily allow
destruction in her care
and become
freshly hewn in
the river's bend,
the wrinkles and
the calluses of
her weary hands.
In blood I sat,
defeated rabbit.
No prize to gloat,
only picket crypt
to curl.