Smokey Whisps.

Strength failing,
Teeth

Chattering.
Tiny insects.

And they circle one another.
Hands rubbed
And bathed in that cotton.

The only protection afforded
To young and
Hungry newness.

Enveloped in red,

Callous
And smiling
In a way that twitches from today
to tomorrow.

A pleading with gravitational forces.
A breathing that stops

And

Starts with gasoline.

Ever shaking.
Ever bending and losing
The way that their
Elders crawled.

An empty ribbed
Congregation.
They forget their own
Pardoned names in the end.