Sparkling Water

I open books of
Autumn
in green
dappled light of
black
coffee mornings-
mourning summer spent
and lifeless-
dying by rows under pale
sun
and purple
crows.

And these words written in secret
crimes and sacred
forgeries-
not desperate
in need
but in
desire-
desperate like fire
yearns for fire
and rivers run
in ruin
to the sea.