Modal rhythm

bleats at this wood

pace, crushing

against our

feet.

The azaleas glare

on our foreheads.

Sun spots on yours.

Your eyebrows

on my face.

Genetic matrix

clots our throats

while we sweat.

That bandana

soaked in your

fifty-seven

year old fist.

Six pairs of

thick glasses

in your desk.

Saturday morning,

the choked gait

and road silence,

we go, go, go —