posthumous
Two days. Or maybe three.
I must lie still. Return myself
to bone and skin. Your name
obliterated on the sealing wax.
It seems I have survived only
myself, grown thin. Or do I still
exist in monochrome of brown
and yellow years to follow.
Only the beauty burnt in
like a serial number. The self
taught discipline of solitude
my latitude, has long since passed.
Yet still Your memory creaks
above my head inscribed
ennui and anno domini.
Low voices conveying their everyday
lies and conspiracies, petty
and sacred. Transforming
all distance the thought
of you breathing beside me.
So still and then more still.
The yellow toothed howl I can
taste in my throat and the sound
of water, written to erase.
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