They couldn't avoid rowing, their vein rivers manifestly flowing, fine threads weaving the wild. Until that wisdom tames, ugly ice creaks and breaks, uterrances, faint bonds. Weave names to lay love down.
I was little and towered over him, but came later to his crowd. Found his pieces, gathered them. If saints dye their grey hairs. If they prey with pale girls. If their bones the priests bless. If their tracksuits match mine.
Sworn brothers, like fuck let's row. How once I held him down, swore with fists, so going south he found this end. Old end, no new blood oath, old eyes, snake staring south over glistening myth. I swept his arms away.
Half stout, half mild, leave it there, no need to row, to waste the land or bear their lingering legacy. At Stikklestad , drink-full, a groggy sleep is all a man needs to fail, fall. How water washes all.
Untying silt weed root knots shown the sun and giving way to plant pots, got to stem the growth of earth. Each hand a verdant spade, ellipsid shadow the elm flower can't evade. Her cat can count to three.
Took his bag on shoulder, wrench up possessions fetched from behind the bench, pence-worth, there since the fighting. And that season went and abandoned me for sand - a lone, binned birthday card. The rain sounded like crisps.