the grasses that are yellow the grasses that are green step out, wet morning air chilling bones metacarpals, tarsals the falling of skin into the next season twisted plasma, yarn and hope the shattered glass of hope gleaming in early sun what you offered forth was ample but not enough the fraction of the fraction of the scientist dying in books with metal clasps and tidy secrets buried in chests and manila folders the documents of tax of the soul the endless pages blanker than the blank page blanker than the gaze of Greek statues the invisible script laid across your cerebellum across your eyeballs dazzled with rejection blood corollary sunsets unmixed gas the insipid stare of the pursuer now her feet are warm in her hasten slippers a shrunken sweater the milk dripping from her lips like a cat sucking god she will go to the farms today what is in season? the urging toward life is deadly season the bare feet walking by the freezing ocean the gulls lurking above like unaware saints the mystical call of the ugly deep that thwacks our knees with unknowns terrifyingly unseens when you step into deep waters when you step into deep waters is in season