Pulling a half-life
doctored
(sweating and balding)
decaying
(blunt, hacking, clumsy, ignorant)
uncared for not dead yet corpse
through the purple fleshy drapes
of another poisoning
I wonder

How was it that I picked the grains of sand
from our feet
and rested my eyes from the sun for so long
so long
that I forget the hot fat slap of it?

Tell me in which box of so many boxes
have I left the words I didn’t use?

standing on a dark beach in the wind
of a southern sea under strings
nothing until the ice

If that journey unravels to a third,
a fourth or fifth glass and
my failing eyes smeared on the spines of books
what of it?

There is no debt or purpose and when
as they surely may
the bees all reach an ending
so shall we, in a cough

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