Though it gets dark earlier and earlier
you were already weakened at birth
–without a shrug let go things
the way each grave is graced
used to being slowly moved along
blossom and in your mouth
a somewhat pebble half fruit
half sweetened, not yet
broken apart in your throat
–you can't make out where in the turn
you are clinging to its path
that led you here, not yet strong enough
or longing for some riverside or rain
or the night by night, warm
still falling off your hands.
