You danced with me
on top of that hill,
where the wind broke into pieces
small enough to hold
Inbetween our linked fingers.

But at the same instant,
as that wind was crushed
in the heat of the moment
I noticed that the
Totem Pole
lacing your lips was falling
a fairer pink, and your flesh
Left untouched.

Your past was erased
Of the marks that I laid,
And the moment was insecure,
and Desolate, and I lied
and I promised
with fingers crossed.
And the words died on your
Lips.

The taste of them was
Something like ash
gone damp in the mist

in the f     g
           o
                        
in the fog.

A photo of cracked lips
on a man
dancing alone, on the top of a hill
Where the wind was blowing,
with a Trace of cracked air
and the oxygen thin                                                         the oxygen thin
                                                        with sorrow.