If
there is
a lazy wood
here layered around
these more red than green
glimpses into my clouded falling,
I haven’t spoken it aloud
or tasted its sweet
and fresh lack of effort
in bringing me down
to the gravelly rasp
of an unexpectedly
kind streambed.
No, not yet. I haven’t.
For my words wouldn’t,
they couldn’t make it out,
screamed or murmured
as summer soft
and impecunious as
the soonness of this
coolness that swallows
my wrists with its newness
and impresses my palms
with the painful clarity
of its hard
at work
if.
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