the gold was time
or longing
the gold was the root
of my tongue
all tastes at its base.
i was untethered
but i didn't notice.
sky had stretched, scratching at itself like trees' leaves,
over the lintel of the door like
a smear of blue paint.
i had been still in a corner
amidst dead leaves,
covered in them,
like a bad dog
with my back to the door
as its hinges
moved.