by Myronn Hardy

But this is for a time.
A time that slides down branches.
A time seen in mirrors as a trapezoid
of light in constant tremor.
A time when wind is cold    rain colder.
The car has stopped in a town where
sheep    steer heads are eaten.
A time when we stop for breakfast    the coffee
some version of mud.
A time to return to mountains even though
dangerous    even though north was the destination.
A time to prepare for death.
The way the streets run red
but you pretend rust.
A time to mourn love imagined.
Your love for me imagined.
Its reality    currents in air.
A time made complicated
by bombs    the coming
bombs    those eventually
rendering us missing.
A time to perhaps be alone    to be
safe among walls    ceilings that leak.
A time that slides down skin.