Follow me again to this precipice.

All my friends sit on boulders and wait.

I’ve always surmised what a forever is.

Maybe it’s God– perched on jaws of slate.

 

All my friends sit on boulders and wait.

We leave foot prints in crumbs of corn bread.

Maybe it’s God– perched on jaws of slate.

By next year’s tomorrow this skin will be dead.

 

We leave foot prints in crumbs of corn bread.

Hike with banana muffin wrappers as maps.

By next year’s tomorrow this skin will be dead.

We’re clementines in the sun’s pirouetted elapse.