Fall is yellowed,
eyes like pathogens,
green manure skin,
recovered grins,
lust the dust of unused
wheat fields,
and I am sallow,
tinged, and wading in,
hands above hollow
stalks, my love.
She squats ‘mong rusty reeds,
holding her knees,
and I unzip silently
behind her ghost gum face,
pull out all my wicked weeds;
I’d saved the best of these
to sprinkle on her crown;
she doesn’t turn ’round.
And after all my seedlings die,
I, too, unbound;
our fallowed souls
feel one final sundown.





Leave a reply to johnlmalone Cancel reply