The sky is white
And the air smells like linens,
tastes like gasoline.

The sign outside the church asks if we’re
ready for judgement day and
the first leaf falls to the sidewalk
beside the stiff corpse of a field mouse;
the transparent landscape bitten by a rich sangria.

I wriggle like a germ on a scraped knee
crawling between pale flesh and damp red blood
I panic, I sprint, I starve.

The flowers, full and heavy with color
can barely hold themselves up anymore - 
they are cut by our hands and as they
bend and weep and wither in their search for the earth,
they are forced to kiss our toes.

The earth is white,
the air is stolen from our lungs in
sharp
cold
bites.