untitled (for now)

Her path is brown apples, soft mud and loam.

She looks nowhere else, steps daintily home.

Above, only one fruit remains,

A brutal burden on a branch that strains.

Overripe, decayed,

Skin split and leaking –

Putrescent –

Do you know of that which I’m speaking?

The soft brown curls whereupon I sit

Are lifted by a gust.

If there is a moment, this is it,

When swiftly to prayer I must.

Oh, sweet lady, pull me low –

Let me shade thine eyes!

There are things one should not know –

Don’t look toward the skies!

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Published in: on October 22, 2010 at 12:52 am  Leave a Comment  
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