Napkins

Soaking it in, the deep crimson reds.
Soaking in salt and dust and grime.
He fell from there, he fell from high.
There he lay with a lowered head.

There he held against his flesh,
The poised and sopping sheet so clean,
Shriveling at the bone so lean,
Shying from the wound so fresh.

Down below in flattened brush,
Where ants and molecules do crawl.
Down where writhing roots do call.
Say to him, “Don’t cry, hush hush."

And so his tears will fall, some fast,
Upon the lip, looks so redeemed.
So sweet but once, now ripping seams.
Shreds are slipping into the cracks.

To patch, to mend, to hold afloat,
That which leaks and pours and drowns
This man in pools of his own shame,
Below this tree, this place remote.

He tries to climb back up again,
He bleeds and cries and sweats some more.
But it soaks, it soaks, it soaks that in.
He falls, and falls, and falls again.

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