Prologue to "Fred the Brown"

[eunuch_dreams]

the dry river

is there some thought that makes the dry river
run, when the sun has burned through greater climes,
burrowed the secrets shorn from the earth's chimes
and shattered shoots of trees to blown silver.

is there any sentiment that curbs disease?
these are shadows where her red mouth withered;
hollows from which her broken veins slithered
and come the night, torn sheets like frozen leaves.

oh, but the dry river - let the dry river run,
lest death bear fruit, and strange youth come undone.