Our tongues dangle like open leaves,
their bellies full of autumns veins-
An incision climbing down its back
with a crackle and a hiss.
The breezes open their blue, blue cuts
and jump around the stammering trees-
On the blunt tips of smoking crowns
we stick our speech like sap,
and undermine the bees strong laughter.
Our hands jingle like Christmas bells
going under false greens-
Our insides linger like disease
painting the pages of memory,
With pent-up ink
and smatterings of abstract scenes.