I frightened myself with daytime and
Evening TV. As expected your hand in
Mine, walking blurred with drink, tipping
On a brimmed lense to a saline puddle.
I feel my nerves bundling on a sentence,
A bloody, wrenching train that promises
Either cataclysm or untried destination,
Yet arrives on time in the rain.
I like the idea of gravestones, their
Wholeness, their rough presumption to
Finishing and hiding and giving, like
A loose button on a coat, unimaginable skin.
And the trees so unpleasantly wet, so deep,
Carving out irrational black soup, you
Seem to me a capturer of time wasted,
Easily blended, a bright compliment
Perfect and transitory. Truth tasted.