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Last
light falls through the high reaches
of
the darkening sky.
It will be twilight soon. Although not yet.
Not yet.
I
am in love with this movement.
In
love with the day, with my pitifully short life.
The
planet upon which I live spinning in the deep
and
neglected weeds of the weary edge of the Milky Way;
the
dog shitting in the flower bed,
the
endless droning of the news.
I
pick at a deep cut on the palm of my hand.
The
nail bed of my left thumb is blackening.
Cobwebs
thicken on the sill. Husks of dead flies.
Flakes
of our dead skin accumulate
after
falling slowly through the air.
We’ve
filtered each atom through our laboring lungs
to
fill this room of our sad lovemaking and our
brilliant
despair, our longings and recriminations,
our
lovely disgust, this love we can't break
Exerpt
from Walking
and Falling
continued-- |
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