On wet bark bough sienna days
when silver beadlets roll on blades
the old lost selves come limping in
from mazes heavy with the rain.
You made a tunnel of your days
twisted trails as a poacher may
distancing the you-with-her
abandoning abandoned cur.
You made a highway of your days
and drove on down through brooding haze
to put in distance, work the time
to speed you out to freedom's rim.
But on wet bark bough sienna days
when clustered blossom holds the drops
and grizzling drizzle never stops
old selves limp in from mazes lost.
And you must take them in again,
must sit out patient in the rain,
on days that silver beadlets roll
and palimpsest the windscreen-show.
On wet bark bough sienna days
when all words fur.
