I cannot continue
as winds and rare leaf
whip cross cold skin,
covered.

The great sky,
so gray and wide,
contains
viscous veins
run-through,
all deepblue,
hinting rumbles
of strong sounds I love-
blood pulsing along the eastern rim,
opposite
where the hidden sun should be,
like a cold and crystal,
swift river
formed from innumerous trickles
and finishing in bays
besides silt-stained fields
where crooked-toothed takers wait,
wielding the immaculate sickle,
with spindly white fingers,
sniffing for us.

Oh, Skyriver’s beating
blares out
impassion’s sorry silence,
reveals
no choleric rage, sullenness, or sanguine highs
among the weeping leaves
and perpetually passing geese,
only feeling
for me alone to make,
that cannot be categorized
even by clearer minds.

You can’t ignore
this spurt
in a falling rain,
driving blood through
this jumble of wilting veins,
spilling out and staining the floor.

Oh,
past the misty brown piles
of mulch and lawn clippings,
are mountains
where twins ‘re falling
in a chaotic jungle
of colorful death and live wood

Somewhere high on rounded peaks,
the sky must be electric
and air pushes the seasons past.