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,