The dirty river flows heavy here, she said, so go away, and her fingertips bled
onto my cleanest shirt and pants.
While the breath went fast to a wind’s pace over some frozen, treeless land
she whispered words I couldn’t hear: sighing and crying before taking the tax
collector in her mouth.
This title will eventually refer to time
Recovering from the thought that this year could be so long,
that a decade could be done
with five more years to go.
And what else is so organized as time already gone?
Vertical miles of forest cover my shoulders;
these wrists are sand dunes spilling under careless feet.
Less than fortunes of unspent minutes
collapsing as time itself is captured,
frozen like meat
fresh-killed and delivered to my door.
No thought encapsulates the mouth—
the moving month ripped stillborn
from an aging womb.
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