What fell wasn't leaf-rot,
wasn't color leaving hair
around the temples
at first.
Since black waves don't rise
against night like the last
time we found our mouths
in a dynamo state,
we turn away from edges;
find ourselves along rivers
mineraled with elk and moose
bones soon to be crushed
under feet searching
for smooth stones, find sparks
into soft skin instead.
We trench deep, wade heavy
to gulp ourselves back to balance
across moon's sleek sliver--
But who isn't a fool
when it comes to lust and love?
(inspired from "I. The Ohio"-Joe Bolton)
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