My Eyes
Fall faster than brown leaves the year the
Mountains ripped in
Two.

The Archive of my mind is a Patchy
Neural Network:
Familiar Trees, float past,
they don’t All
Get to bask in the deep red of dusk,
Resting in ditches,
Even for the roots
“Recovered”
the dusk turns to Night.

Eventually displayed for All;
seeping out and into damp lense,
Arthropods begin carving, nesting
in the belly of Her
Great trunk.

Our sweet river Mourning, always there
To shake us
Alive.