This is the start of it:
the clay palm hitting the face,
bags packed, colours away;
all my flares quenching into the distance.
It begins: the spectrum loses a stripe,
the red berries fall,
morning’s a corpse.
This is the way of it:
table set and unset, crossed knives and forks:
insignia of the tamed and helpless;
rain dribbling, failed flames.
This powder insistence:
stampede of padded hooves,
retreat to reverse;the days worn thin with walking back and forth