Ink

The heavy laden sky,
dotted in the inky milk of galaxies,
burned brightly above us -
the horizon uncluttered
by the tenants of the earth

We plodded through the snow
or walked down the center of the road
talking loudly of the inconsequential
at stream of consciousness

Still off in the East (or was it the West)
lay the dimly glowing candle of daybreak

The swings made the screech of dying animal,
but it was nothing sinister -
their hinges only rubbed uncomfortably together

My toes throbbed in the canvas of my shoes,
ill equipped for this kind of thing.
And my lungs wheezed loudly as we ran back to the house,
ill-born for that as well.

A shiv below the left rib
and I collapsed on a convenient post,
and focused on the in out in out
the rise and fall of my shoulders.
They called for me to hurry up,
but I only sat and heaved

If only you could have been there,
beneath the rest of it all
and flown with me on snowy swings
or seen the water lick its salty lips
or run fast with me in piercing air.