Ashen hand in ashen hand
paths on paths on paths on paths
vine-led swing sets and beer and long rocks
washed by lakes that never come up too far
to wade in and taste the naked apocalypse without wincing
the touch of the cold rim's water
a layer away

the cracks in the copper opaque
files of mica and fool's gold
split by a knife of silver
faint organism on wheels
staring out of an octopus tree
with a yarn-bundled heart
a bank account drained in the umbilical belly
hot lips to please the darkening picnic.