a brook slapped with sable
no mourning rod, the gills
of dead fish stuffed with lemon wedges.
Walk on leaves marked
by the scent of musk and offal
while the shouts deeper in the woods
ping from tree to skull-
a blood curdling scream-
a woman with a paper towel
over her hand stained red with dots.
This clavicle blooms suddenly
smelling the last rose of summer
while stammering linked to air
where arms were once scented with amber.
I'm walking into the cool water
without hesitation without remorse
a scant shell cleaned of words
gripping the silt with the curl of my
toes edging closer yet closer still.