Colors fading in exposure,
plastic pegs huddle,
hang drooping pearl feet -
cloud-light crescents
under-slung by their horns
all along the green line -
deserted for a season
until spring winds
sing dry.
Grasses that bore
a crystal fur affliction,
edges evenly needled
in every millimeter,
lax now, green-tongued,
lolling with profligate silver...
There are grooves;
there are ridges
in all voicing scratches;
blood-beads dull,
scab dry,
so grooves become ridges.
What we deemed marking time
was life lived,
picked at,
flaked to a scar.
