this beautiful waste
falls open
edges spill sideways
and we empty back to full,
bare feet pressed to a covered
sky.
there are no harbingers,
no heralds
[ of what was,
or what might be ]
just the endless of a moment
before the end,
a softening of shell as fragments tremble,
as everything crawls
away,
as the centre flees pale shadows
that once tasted green-
limbs that weighed over us ...
the ground is hard in seasons
such as these
and our water so brittle
anointed, we slip
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
There is never anything critical to tell you. 
