New Leaves This Color

If I don't wring out my spine
I will die here-
A flickering ember.

Just like all the
"Once Were,"
On the stoops of their
Silted up
Streams.

Who could they have been?
Mouths pretty and primed
With ticking speeches, keeping
Time
Like a
Metronome.

We were intoxicating.
Now we're composed of dotted lines.
We are bound limbs in dismal grays,
Cubicle wires and static fraying.

Our lives were stories
With romantic chapters
About our
Pink lips,
Soft curls,
Wide eyes,
And holy hopes.

We used to believe in something.

And Christ sprawled before us
Like a supper and was crucified
And we ate of his body and
Our lips were stained with wine.

But we couldn't keep our promises.

So we ground our trees
And bound our mistakes.
We stitched our fingers and feet and whereabouts into
The vertebra of
Time.


And if I don't wring out my spine...