I imagined you a seasonal refrain,
a cold embellishment of sopping truth,
having snagged her loins on the craggy teeth
at the mouth of the sea, torn open her flesh,
but made it back to us, somehow.
I will never be the same
and I shall always be changed.
In this, the consolation,
the wet terror of the truth, of
truth herself, red-footed, walking,
walking like miles were her eyes
blinking fervently, but she longed
to gaze opening into the sky,
as I saw her then, bold woman
who had not yet come to know
the dark hands of weary men.
She was lost out into the canyon
too long ago for me to perfectly
envision her again. I tried to recover
the corpse of her body from the abyss,
but to descend, one must strip oneself
of longing and the very desire
that had sent thee down in the first place,
so that, on finding truth,
a mangled mess of light
at the floor of the world, I could not
bring myself to carry her
back to the scorch.