Worry-strips on eyelashes,
worry-strips on eyelashes.
Crisscrossing fir roots
over a cascade of light,
over a work still to write.
Frost molds discs
in moments’ mute fall –
it is not that, before which
sinks nightly a fiery ball.
The path twisted and turned,
rays scattered about,
the aroma of decaying leaves.
Time walks swiftly, spurred,
holding our debt in its hands.
Clouds remain, paths remain, you are gone.
Left is the ground, left are the flowers, but you are not.
Wind carries the dandelion tufts from blossomed yearnings.
I read it all in faces gazed upon – I reckon this must be freedom.
And from a simple person I turn into a detailed construction,
from maybe a single opportunity I sing with the wind in unison,
sinking as metal into concrete.
Brittle teeth crumble from the mouth of time.