of touch, of drink, and of bones

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.

drink that serum of dreams,

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.