The Start of It

              

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,

light leaves;

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