beneath these raining golden leaves.

the road turned at a downward slope
my soles flying down it's back

but absorbing, with each trace
it's skin, my legs spider
walking with a careful ease, absorbing my own
weight against its body

i can trace the skin of these roads
with the tips of my feet i can feel
its heat rising in the morning dew

the fog dripping between its cracks like
sweat on backs except
my feet don't have to graze

search. the promise of pavement
a body stretched out to travel across
beneath these raining golden leaves
always

and the more i know, the more
i don't know.

it's as if unearthing
new facts uncovers old
artifacts, memories buried on shores
lake michigan, the tip of the
finger of the cape
bottle caps in my purse

except the further time steps
me away from them
the more i know of them and the greater
i don't know of the now

because now is not the night i
stood in a 2 am fog among the shells and whitecaps
and was able to see

because ignorance really is bliss

not knowing that you know

absolutely nothing about what
you're supposed to be doing,
here on this shore, counting shells and whitecaps
and cigarette butts and bottle caps in
my purse and the days

that go by like dust collecting in attics.
the more i know,
the more i don't know and the more
i need to know

on how i will run you out of my bones.

it's the running.
it's the running in the night,
the race against the dark
the falling of fall's fingertips along the treeline

as if the leaves are sucking
the last breaths of sunlight and
florescence from the daytime

gasping and grasping and
ringing in one final push of color
against the dark like

a need to
keep going

to wear down until the bones show

to pound those memories of me and of you
into the sand along the reservoir along
the water's edge and the edges of waters
at the edges of cities by lakes.