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.