shredding pocketwatches.

we used to be loquacious
and we used to sing at blades of grass
until they bent to listen.
before snowstorm freckles and
the decadent thump of fleshonflesh
we had teeth made of sunshine
and an ego to match.

you were a cyclone and an End
and i was a symptom of the
human race
and i am still faded machinery
but each mechanic leaves me
worse for wear.

[have you noticed the ripples in our irises lately?
or how they look like midsummer sin--]

let's go back and paint dark faces on brick fences
the way you used to talk about.