the memory of one
citrus summer eve
is now petrified wood buried
deep, deeper, deeply
in a hollow neither of us have seen
or touched
there is ash where the fire's lickings have tossed a thousand shadows
and our story is piled a mile high
like a tower of dark secrets
deeply rooted
equipped with claws and a rifle
reality and fiction embedded in the soles
of one another's weary
traveler feet