a tree tilts and splinters with a
whip-crack of drums on bark.
Wolves decide quietly, instead
devour dinner under a shady canopy,
which soaks street lights up like a cotton
shirt does blood. Hark, a soft thought
littered rises and sways: in what way does
wind wisp old leaves away, wipe
roads clean of any ambiguous destination?
Might we travel together down all
trails, tread long laughs as a quarter
in motion lands on both heads and tails?
Or would wizened women and men
run headlong backwards towards themselves
for mere instant gratification, list worries
and regrets upon a napkin folded in small doses,
clean messes made when minds spill over
from too much dwelling on empty spaces.
Between bare limbs, arms outstretched across oceans
of brown grass, a sliver of hope diverges.
A vessel sits void of any intimate urges.
Take the latter, forget the former. These thoughts
will only assassinate, as if time lasts forever.