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.
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