A shutter-wide,
light-slick,
peristaltic last
click.

Alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial,
alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial,
alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial,
alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial,
alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial,
alluvial, alluvial, alluvial, alluvial.

24 colourific cuds.
Sampled time, collected blood,
of people and worlds
delivered in flood.

Sloppy rich clay
worked by the waves,
a porridge dependable
for warming cold days.

Lips, hands, face, dripping.

Nutritious the first time
but this time there’s missing
the true heart and soul and the face of the flood,
long since assimilated in blood,
or lost in the ground,
but not in the cud
anymore.

Pictures of lovers,
friends, family and pricks
held tight under time’s relentless stone mix.
A long time immovable,
eventually a slick
black hole.

Eyes very old
but said to be mine
are now closed by the flat underside
of the time when, well, this one is stuck
to the time i’m seen in adorable muck,
my mouth agape like the dustbin flap,
propped open by a time’s too-long unchecked crap.

This is not a pipe
of one strict down direction
but a volcanic vent
of spent time’s resurrection.

Mind aligned for memories
and the physical, but not death –
his photos he thinks are of all time bereft –
and with that he takes his tragic last breath —

Alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium,
alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium,
alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium,
alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium,
alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium,
alluvium, alluvium, alluvium, alluvium.