The End of It

It is as if we have not been at all,
the time we spent is but a ghost of
fall and fall
and watch me call
with knees bent down,
hands clasped and all,
false god in wood, a doll.

My face is rain, with leaves we leave,
I leak,
the veiny pave revealing inner
creeks
and
rocks
the vessel gliding firry frocks,
tops crimson bleak;
no sough can stir her sleep.