November 6, 2017

After a driest day blue,

          The iodine smear.

Low and seen with rolling eyes.

The long grass could be called weeds

of hiding our sin.


Seeing the crows feet of the pumpkin

through the river trees,

my Tycho gasps,

the old man’s eyes never turn away.


A roll of an engine,

as a Shepard tone approaching.

Headlights searching fingers

through the bracken line,

but we are not found.

Burning bright.


The night pulls over

loosely as our blanket.

Bodies moist before the dew.


The stars shone on our bodies.

On our lilac pale skins.

as we fell into the wells

of our eight ball eyes.


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