Why visit that place
with your head in your hands?
The smoke and smell of you
an invisible breathe of senseless
loss. pale. nothing.
No water hole, no river stones.
No afghans, no bearing bones.
Nothing, but
a sturring into rut
beyond the mirrors.
beyond the doors.
beyond being yours.
tip back and look back
the neck and groans
look back, look back
through bear-less bones
the afghan, of wounded threads
of dry, heartless river stones
that lie at the bare bottom
of the broken buried bones.
