ash in the mouth

You speak of vows like broken tools, iron bent, still hot in the hand; seeing the feast tipped into a gutter, and name each grain of choice. Dogs sniff at what was once a meal, grass bows away from the teeth. The wind carries scents you do not forgive. There is a field where promises rot- fruit collapsing inward, sweetness leaking into the soil. Some walk there hungry, some in disgust, all with shadows long behind them. You throw stones at the well, hearing no splash. I lean over, and see only my own face, wavering. .