Rbt. B Rutherford

photo by, Todd Roeth

Rbt. B. Rutherford

knee deep in the dry stalks of grasses

our very bones will cradle the sunlight

and future taxidermists will restore our youth with rouge

paint our cheeks into long forgotten folds of surprise

cup our hands into ungulate chords

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

tether our forms above the geologic record

where darlings run laps in the sleep saloon,

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

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

slowly degrading, sloughing, shedding, dissipating

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

as seraphic and cold as the spirit held against the chest

curling up against the spin of time,

where we look out across the sleeping city

where the light continues to dance

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

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

now, and now, and now, and now

like anything means anything at all.