Black under feet. The closing of doors. No airs about the throat. Let us play at the reindeer game. Let us play and pretend. At things not. And the men in their skinny white jeans and skinny white t-shirts and black and yellow the letter. As the seas meet at the shore and the berry bleed to the root. About the light and the coming dark. The closing of doors as the rains and airs move in springs in breaking ground. There where you sit. Hunched forward to screens we did not see. Pains we did not. But still. Roll down they do. Upon your face. Red and black drip. Do they roll down upon your face. Cruel. Cruel are we. Throwing stones not mine. The grass wet outside. And beside did we lie and pray. And laugh at things we did not feel. Swim did we. There. In that place. At the bottom of hills and sand. By trees and insects and fish of your dreams. Purple were they. I read about your letters and cry did we lie. But who was she. Who was she that you loved. And tore flesh off the senses of time and love dead. Who was she. That to me do you come. Flowers in green and yellow dress. And smiles dimmed about your eyes. The lights go out and the table waits cold. Here I sit. Wait. Away. Away. By teeth flashing in your mouth and grays about your palms. In lips did we. Remember that?
