Saturday, September 18, 2010

if only we can die like this

as the cancer glides around the glass slide
as the unsteady peaks weaken towards a flat line
as the flesh no longer stretches but rather folds
as the bones rise like islands in the weary meat

the leaves release themselves from the tree
after a long summer's reign
surrendering their green
their points still intact not curled like hands
grappling to save themselves
just this calm slow shower of majestic reds
dropping through beautiful trapdoors in the wind

if only we could die like this--
like old resigned kings on fire
leaping from the world's arms
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.