He's wearing my favorite shirt. 
And he speaks in tones of peppered loss and rageless loss. 
The claws click against the veranda's shade. 

His pockmarks glow in the reflected dew. 
So quietly announcing the sun's stretches and it's yawn. 

They arrive, my fast continues. 

Beneath the grounded carpet,
The ***** brings me towards the river. 
The color green surrounds me, my reflection quite to speak. 
I stop to look above and see the black clip of flight. 

I look to the paper and begin to finish. 
The ink runs out as I enroll in the water's treatment.