in the time of yellow paper
when the air was book
mold and greasepaint
you fed on the meat of my
laughter
with the hunger of a
maggot
clearing away necrotic flesh
to expose something
pink
to expose something
proud
to expose something
understood
by neither host nor
scrounge
but that was Then
amber dust
rose from Churchill Downs
on the brittle wings of butterflies
on the crackling corpses of cicadas clinging
fast
to cottonwood trees
and all our life was
the sugary coat of a scotch tumbler
the powdery cloche of an ashtray
the sparkling spray of Italian
glass
showering shards in a
halo
on the wall above your head
We were
Youth
and Promise
and Beauty
and All
that
Everyone
wanted to Be
if only
They
had been
and not
We
© s rogers 27 march 2009
