reach round to where light limps behind us there
is a tree be careful they might see what we hide
behind each leaf among branches of old red or
between our toes where soft white spaces glow in
the gray grass our hearts hang in a low row dripping
drying to a rare mass of ruddy hues nurse that bruise
we ask why we become ripped but still we cup our
fingers to collect and drain the dreams that tickle
and trickle back black in veins the whispers you don't
hear coming from me aren't prayers they are there
for you to be but some dry whispers hover there for me
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