And that has made no difference

On a back porch lit by embers

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.