Stone throw into the river
feeling the water pass by…
What did I ask you then?
Covered bridge crowds our breath
our claustrophobic hands scream cinnamon,
minimalize my impatience
with open promises of forever.
Is it too late to mention fragrance?
There is a tide to passion
masking the bold green banks
overgrown and rotting
conception. Cherry trees curious
on the naked hills
bathe in a passing shower.
Do you feel the mud in our shoes?
I writhe under the taste of blood
on your lips, your eyes look
washed and clean.
Like your mouth. The coffee
thermos is empty.
Point the way to our next move.
How do I move away from our quiet birth?
Motions of still life cover your face,
hovels of clandestine lovers fall.