At the Whim Not of Mine

The day you left my throat wrang with regret.
Not quite understanding where the day found me
stripped three ways to the bone,
and bleeding just a little less than my form would imply.

It seemed the dregs of afternoon sun
would consume me like a colon
to a bacteria.

Sometimes I still think of the days --
oh those days -- when hearts
were light and I was filled with the fruits of
something not unlike the diminution
(like the throes of August)

of a wayward glance,
at the form of some mountainous clouds, steel grey
in the rays of the wayward sun.

I could ride the treetops and see the exclusion
of man from beast, and
look upon the regretful denizens
of some past othodoxy of nature,
floating face down in drowning pools of ill-intent.

The sear of my dead flesh being stripped away
as my countenance broke three ways from the pitch
of the myriad flares of light.

For the scene was intense, and so were the trees,
that day, when I found myself without and someone else
with. Sometimes it glares at me:
this note you left me -- I read, with you at another.