Passed amber trees walking
the route to your basement
apartment, my voice singing
some precious mystery. But
in the volume of desert heat,
with empty sand-fields and
gasoline rivers through the
windshield, I woke to a drop.
Morning rain, wash my hands
of ash. Make a towering vase.
For every blade I cut, a petal
of September turns to stone.
No comments:
Post a Comment