1. Autumn, and with it the dead fruit bloody with the life of yesterday, spilled over, awake through the leaves, the apples, the fallen piecemeal, people strolling through the yellow memories of childhood; sepia toned against the decayed umber shadows in their complacency. The raw earth, through tones of yellow, red and bone harvest speaks of flesh and the closing rhythm of the sun; staccato of the moon. The air pleads for ice.
2. The young man stands on street corner concrete dreams coercing the pale earth of his heart; aquamarine desert at sunrise. The scabs of the city writhe, scrape by with the blaring of car horn, muffler spoke and wheel; everyone moving. The moon and the ancestral star stare down wide-eyed over the neon emblazoned night; his heart is weeping, peeled back, horn shredded his own hands owning the scraping tool. Concrete dreams covering the pale earth of his heart; ocean over the desert at sunrise.