rust

tastes like brass-- the morning
a mouth of dirt, and rememberance
--rust.
the sunlight streaming
down sluggishly, in sepia.
Rose, above the chaos
of the sheets, below
and the sharp and
emptiness-- they didn't
cover
--soft under my palms, now, cool
thrown together
out of nothing
with dirt in my mouth
I rose to stumble,
I can taste it
--now.
through the haphazard light