it does not hover frozen in future time it does not give chase. I do not feel it in my gut like my father does walking the dog early in the morning hours borrowed with a collateral of bypass surgery and low sodium. Death is the seabed accruing. We drift down, particulate, a gradual disintegration of layers like the crumbling of sandstone cliffs in a million tiny landslides, each dropping a handful of pebbles from the walls.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Poems from Other Days
September 2021
|