A Holiday

Not yet, not so far.
Left in the cleft betwixt
randy and ruin.
Who left all the shine
and glimmer off the straits?
Run into the stand,
leap through the thorn brush
rasping at the skin left bare.
The cold foot dank
in the stone hollow court,
wind through the mouth
bit low in the dark.
Die there in the meadow,
in the tree shadow wending.
Die in the branch heart,
taught sinews straining.
Die on you feet,
in the salt flat sucking.
Die in the deepness
of the rock spring breath.