Fathoms

Smoke, as told in prose. Aqueous, the sound of
a tree falling for the forest’s charms. A hand in
the war footage dangling at the holster. Quiet’s
doublespeak encrypting valentines. A thirst, as
it backstrokes on fortunate riptides. Naked for
the fashion show of gestures harvesting corn.
Taking pause from the shelf life, lived in waiting
for candor in the objects held dear. Twinkles in
the hiccup of wide open spaces. Deputies in the
saga of every man for himself. The presumption
of portals in a gaze upon the clandestine, the
something for all to see.