By Alexis Kirke

About 100 yds. up the road was a graveyard We used to visit in the autumn when the leaves turned violently red * their dermatology their flake their dried haemo- perspirate I was only ten years old * the drink had not taken hold yet but I was guzzling the too-small- to see leaf particles * intoxicating liquor served from branches crackled with opposing thumbs "the greatest blessing of the human race" the grave Stones were silken * breath of slate so many strips of grey * & we were buried feet in fall * took every step beneath a pool of veins up a track of mud a brick of chocolate curved by pebbles creaking thru the evening the emerald * the color-blindness of the sun * we were overwhelmed obsessed by every cracky little piece of paint that dripped from futures of the gate * those iron dreams about 100 yds. above the house where crucifixes launching from the roof dispersed the clouds like breaths of wood * I really had my doubts but every spring we re-interred the branches of the trees and wrapped the bark around our legs like spears * around the roots of our progenitors * around the house replacing paint that we'd re-cycled for the gateway's coat * a skin that crinkled in the light of distant stars * I was creator I was insatiable I was the uneducated mass of hurry and indecision

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