THE DAYS OF SPILLED EARTH.

All the way round it was dark,
Although it was day,
As everything entered the night
Or ended that way;
Even the whites of our eyes
Were evening shade
Whilst beneath the route of our feet
The earth bled its clay.

And us there alone with the air
Having ushered up close;
Pressed into our faces
With the passion of all feared most.
Forcing ourselves to knit more,
With four senses invoked,
As sight generated old
Scenes to get stuck in our throats.

A trickle of spit mixed
With a thickness of sweat
Splashed over the edge of our
Dispatch and got our toes wet;
The moment was over and gone
From the minute we met
So let us slip into the pond
And live under its net.