slow down, you're moving too fast...

this is where i have ended.
on the brown side of the river,
washing scratch rust along my calves,
my forearms.
no warning,
no time to think.
dirt compounding itself,
like so many chords,
haphazardly strung in a minor key.
like dirty rain,
bottled in the spring,
for each pale yellow lightning streak,
calling the lover to mate.