by Leon Fedolfi

I am sometime or now

metamorphic intrusion.

I am pressure turned harder

from the movement of turning.

Sandstone converted

into grains of chest fitted.

Red auto now chased, 

in the color of leaving.

Conform with consent

to blend with surrounding.

Evacuate all

except for the silence.

I will see you again

in the year of its choosing.

 

A word of pre-dying: 

 

All within thought, 

within the body of thought 

just over the horizon.

Almost next to you. Almost a mountain.

A miles-long scarf 

runs from the summit -

winds its way Red 

through a city of 

tight breaths 

and lingered moments 

of others.