Again, like before
a lost walk in a manic rain
and the cold back seat;
Black, purple,
and some, older,
green and pink
my legs and arms, bruised.

It took a drunken sunless summer,
only one week of copper leaves for the fall
and this desert,
a month of a metal door handle turning, turning
Until, with a gasp, the dead black of December.

Here in the new year, a fat feast for death to add to my years,
a night dive into stone.