Slipstreams

“When the seasons become one, you will know the end is near.” --old Biblical proverb Ginseng moon pollens night. How long has it been? Your death still an enigma, ciphered away, riddled in remembrances as years flit faces like gnats. The sky is sateen, a pale wash of embalmer’s rouge. We revel in deceptions, careen within fresh frescoes of lives. The chrysalis of your body incubates beneath milkweed as we believe and disbelieve— knowing it is not true as we chant your name numb on lips. We slowly decompose in our composings— sheeping lives of scant substance and indefinite meanings. It all ends with gutted cliches, so much russet berm spaded layer on loamy layer of shadowy fontanels— a high lonesome song weakly mimicked in mimosa wind.