Rbt. B Rutherford

photo by, Todd Roeth

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Rbt. B. Rutherford

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knee deep in the dry stalks of grasses

our very bones will cradle the sunlight

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and future taxidermists will restore our youth with rouge

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paint our cheeks into long forgotten folds of surprise

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cup our hands into ungulate chords

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tether our forms above plumes of dust in pained poses of flight

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tether our forms above the geologic record

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where darlings run laps in the sleep saloon,

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cold shadows run from fires dying down, looking for a light to hang themselves from

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waiting for dawn, eager for noon, refracting among the jars they hope to be kept in

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slowly degrading, sloughing, shedding, dissipating

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distilling into essence and ether, as harsh against the lips as this,

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as seraphic and cold as the spirit held against the chest

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curling up against the spin of time,

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where we look out across the sleeping city

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where the light continues to dance

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the liquor burning in our lungs, our hands stuffed into our pockets

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and our collars turned up against the wind, where we hang our heads and whisper

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now, and now, and now, and now

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like anything means anything at all.