White Epoch

My mind is filled with terrible conjectures
even as I sit on a solemn hillside

beneath a tree
making suggestions in nearly human speech.

Red glares harass the greenery
as undercurrents of ugly

escape from the holes in my shoes
and the cuff of my sleeve.

I never thought I’d blame you like this
or make a declaration about what you deserve

but the sun is a moment of iridescent decay,
a foretaste of fallenness

in a substance of rot and groan
and the familiar white epoch

of your body remains comely, almost lifelike,
a blemish floating across my eye.