The Process

We fall

muddied and the stale taste of mud

tucks in our gums.

Palms are to the wet leaf ground and late November’s rain

swirls with the scent of embankment sand,

earthy. I spit out dirt and blood.

Tonguing my mouth

it’s like an inspector and the composition of silt

and grass are launched                        into the air,

sewn together by saliva. We sweat

and our breaths are grey plumes

floating     in the cold atmosphere.

In my physical prime I force out another yell.

The darkened puddles around my neck and my underarms

cool down with a saggy rhythm,

left,

right,

left.

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