Wheeler Park

the swings
they screech
we pass off our
forgotten flip-flops
to early fallen dew
as dead old men

faces defined like skulls
whiskey breath
in gloaming chills
stupors of something more

kisses of turgid talk
of love's astray
that pint is done

twitter padded countenances
construe
as orange butterflies alone
aloft
thoughts unknown

not new
we became
in a meadow of thatch
oblivion

the buzz of orange lights
her beauty
her eyes
her
baby earth-drawn smile
rift of all change
worlds of
nothing but
radiant glow
like a sun without words
she needs these lips
to fill
the verbs
of real
fall, pink ebbs of day

she was too much