In Tin Cups Of Metal Coin and Lost Lovers

Today he went down to the river,
and washed his hands.

As the sun meets death,
it scorches the throat of the horizon,
spilling shimmering orange beams and purple blush
across the glass canvas.
Abrasive, resistant,
Consumed,
The village is engulfed by the warmth of its cataclysmic departure.
The children are dispersed.
The aromas of soft supper blends
seep out of straw huts,
intermingling with chirping of crickets
and cascades of waterfall quiet,
entirely bereft of Stillwater Silence.
The land is lulled by low roars
and dwindling coal-fire kindling,
coated with hums like morphine
drip wet cartilage
as it melts on the rock,
he is taking himself elsewhere.

Slowly eroded,
transient electrocentric energy unloaded.
Oh, he is getting there, hopes and
visions of grandeur suddenly in focus.
The jaded locusts of morrow may feed
on the clusters of grime from his cold knuckles,
but the shackles have been broken,
and he is freed of that old catastrophe.
The trout are dancing in the golden,
For the sky has been smoked and
they want a touch of its flavor.
His burning butter tears cut through the river
Like shards of jagged.
He weeps like Egyptians
Who no longer carry boulders,
Like when a child is born.
He weeps like the soldier’s return home,
Like the wind has touched his forehead.
His smile is wet, thick with stale endearment.

In proximal distance,
A coffin is lifted in bursts of fireworks.
Incinerated are the forefathers.
As their remains delicately hang in the skyline,
The river shines with contingence.
He kisses the currents,
He can still feel the pulse in his lips.

Sing low the calls of madmen,
They speak true to your wonders.
Find summersets in your drinks,
Find jousting in your ambition.
If you can find serenity
In tin cups of metal coin
And lost lovers,
You too will dance with the trout
In the glimmer of the golden
And cleansing shade of dusk.