I throw on the day
like a poncho of lead,
my thumb blurs out the graphited edge of morning,
as the touch of summer begins to nip.
The tongue recedes —
the mouth feathers the threshold of resistance—
it gently contours over
a dry riverbed of stone
banks softened and deluded.
The mind is routed,
ripped out like a dead root.
No matter - no matter—
softly now we turn back to the day
reared up ahead like a fresh colt
welcoming it’s mother’s milk.