Early, it's early they say, and you aren't a stone-
yet where you stand the world passes you by and no tears come,
must be too early, the trees haven't caught flame yet.
The haze of my soul spreads over the dying ash of green,
a cloaked grayness will arrrive and overtake the afternoons.
I plan on evacuating the colors of the world to send postcards to the holy.
Even to suffering Orion, there where his ancient flesh rots: suspended half-dead above my equinox.
Under the broken promises of great storms, my bones ache, I live, and my hands
do nothing but weave the air to the air. The fiery minutes reduced to dust and memory.
Here is where I'll oxidize under Creation.
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