By Isaac Thornton
It was almost autumn when we touched
for the first time, when outside the leaves
landed like tanned leather on the forest
floor (like us under the covers)
and all the while His son sat there
and stared, shuddered
on the bolts that held him
over the headboard.
After, we wandered down to the water,
to wash off the dirt (of our deeds)
but where we should have sloshed
His summer skies onto our skin,
we smeared handfuls of sediment
and fed our befouled bodies
to the filth.