Still running from the echo of your voice

Still air breaks
A folded shout
An echo, a chase
A half familiar shape
Always (almost) always catches up

Your mouth is proud flesh
I know you speak yellow flowers
Chrysanthemums, daisies, cicatrix
All sun coloured glowering

Scratched, pierced through, rolling
A grin sunset wide
Chest hard beaten cloth
Entangled scant vehemence

I am that field, over there
The prone face of the hill
Reaped in mown straw
Left to jigsaw the sun
In hard razored angles

Obtuse, oblique
Enough to jangle
The sunburned nape
Footsteps strafing
The clod turned earth
A hole will break you
If you do not
Keep lightly running

Still I am creased
Turned and bent
Crumpled, dismade, thrown and rent
By the origami of your voice