the firey ellipse decends the horizon
morning doves don't recall dawn
fear of death call us all, to the river
cut through sedinemtary, igneous, galactic vortex.
dumb cow, three stomachs
still, he won't tell me
how good it is going down.
walkers, lovers, crackheads,
head to the Might Miss
decending elevation and temperature
proportional, ofactory hues hold eyes
on dripping geology, melting,
oozing towards, longing Lousiana deltas.
we count syringes and notice
collapsed buildings and bridges
and are content believing we are alone
and are wishing to be alone
unaware our shadows have untied from us,
wandered off & gotten lost.
only in a new moon
do we hope they will return
with stones and syringes collected
in little piles on the sand.
When will this film be over?
or has it been on repeat
since the primordial mass
was reflected by an unknown light?
If the river did not reflect,
would you open your eyes
or become the river
or bridge or syringe.