the greedy void hurries away precious, hoarded vapors into a quietly latched chest
full of hours. days. weak-knee, stormfront months and whispered lore of the return of canopy cover to the pewter forest .
the same paths traced out with each rut in the road lines
a cycle of scars in the world like the thirsty, reaching tendrils of a dry riverbed
the skin bunched across my finger bones
splits open.in pious sacrifice to the nascent frost
pebbled gully,
shambled stone hands trying to hold up the
wholething
how do right things get
done_
a calling card
comes
home. the mouth of a dollhouse.
a department store with all the lights turned
off.
the sound of splashing without
source .oh, what
mud
we
might have
been.