The same day comes
like a yesteryear of travelling
in the dessicated skin of a rainbow
sutured to the hem of a skirt.
The day that comes unredacted.
the full sun on your heel.
and all hells. marching
into worse, by Feel.

blind to the terrain.

but walking
still.

II

i have no problem with the truth.
it merely comes to me, like a shadow
as I feign sleep... as i click heels
in the pantry of our dense cakes
and jellied veal.
where I turn the soil
the soiling kills a Sun -
on your face.
i impeach the beginning
with a whirr of outlasting
naivete.
crippled by the bargain
of attachment
and Dismay.

III

as we may.