Stained
Bleached.
Twenty miles north,
Fifteen miles east.
Still, I can’t be found.
What has been
Won’t leave.
I sense death
Like I smell
The beginning of a rain;
Instinct.
I sense grief
Like a ravished stomach.
Acrid.
By the time
The time keeper comes
I’ll be meek.
By the time
Gabriel blows salvation’s horn,
I’ll be deaf.
Wondering where
These words point?
Loss.
Like the loss
Of your second shoe
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Or sight,
Or taste,
Or any sense of beautiful.
Caskets seem as heavy
As memories.
There’s more
Than just breath
To being alive.
The blind man folds his cards.
He knows he’s out played;
His odds skin thin.
I’ve folded twice,
And landed on gurneys.
Supine.
The hospitals were even confused.
Now?
Seems I don’t know better
Than to wake
And wake again.
Anesthesia can numb this.
Libations can slow, the remorse.
Nothing known
Can halt
The rise
Of this coming sun;
Again.
