i

on the day when so many things
darkened like the evergreens of winter night
spill over into this abysmal brightness
revealing themselves finally, as bugs do
under skins

the self was gone
swept up in mourning
the memory of crocheted puce hats
falling sweetly behind
the subtle green of summer
limping into tear-caressed eyes
reminding of simple times and the lips that they have kissed

words never seemed to suffice
bubbling outwards, the kind of mouthwash
that invades

two men, twice,
hillside and a far,
contenting themselves in the aftermath
of the day when so many things happened.