inhaling these sodden summer days
listening to leadbelly
and drinking southern style real brewed sweet tea.

i'll miss you when the morning comes.

In The Sour Grass Field


there lay my face on your wrist
like a heart on a sleeve

painstaking.
sweat brow.
pen strokes.

you held your arm out
in the blazing summer sun.
"look," you said,
"it's you."

how dear you were
in that moment.
with great crashing pride
you viewed your handiwork

talking.
talking.
talking.
you were always
talking.

libraries of words
falling off the shelves of your mouth.

drawing.
drawing.
drawing.
you were always
drawing.

and now,
this image of me.

like a brand upon the brain.

you thought it'd
be there, to
remind you
of
me.

but not all things
can be as they were first intended.
the rain eventually lets up
children abandon their red balloons
prisoners come up for paroll
and ink fades.

I was witness to this.
first on your wrist.
and then in your chest.