Leaving
Posted: Sun May 31, 2020 7:13 am
Revision
In his mind the road descends to pale blues
that he hopes is the sea. But he hears no waves.
The curtains shut out the sun and hide everything;
nights fall at noon but time doesn't, the hours .
circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.
He can only imagine cold, the earth in his garden ,
crumbling between his fingers. He used to sense
the beginning. Much now is idle, and speculation.
Hereafter will be shared by others out of earshot,
like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how doctors reduce him to a problem to be solved.
They implore him to heal himself but he is tired,
too tired, too short of breath for the journey.
He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.
We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.
Original
Leaving
His road descends to a recollection of the palest blues.
He would like them to be the sea, but hears no waves.
The curtains are drawn to the sun, as if shutting out light
hides everything; in fact, it brings nights on faster,
they circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.
He can only imagine cold, remembers his garden left behind,
the earth breaking between his fingers, seeds, and water,
a sense of beginning. So much now is idle, and speculation.
If there is an after, it will be shared by others out of earshot,
like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how they reduce him to a problem to be solved.
They implore him to solve himself but he is tired,
too tired too short of breath for the journey.
He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.
We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.
In his mind the road descends to pale blues
that he hopes is the sea. But he hears no waves.
The curtains shut out the sun and hide everything;
nights fall at noon but time doesn't, the hours .
circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.
He can only imagine cold, the earth in his garden ,
crumbling between his fingers. He used to sense
the beginning. Much now is idle, and speculation.
Hereafter will be shared by others out of earshot,
like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how doctors reduce him to a problem to be solved.
They implore him to heal himself but he is tired,
too tired, too short of breath for the journey.
He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.
We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.
Original
Leaving
His road descends to a recollection of the palest blues.
He would like them to be the sea, but hears no waves.
The curtains are drawn to the sun, as if shutting out light
hides everything; in fact, it brings nights on faster,
they circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.
He can only imagine cold, remembers his garden left behind,
the earth breaking between his fingers, seeds, and water,
a sense of beginning. So much now is idle, and speculation.
If there is an after, it will be shared by others out of earshot,
like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how they reduce him to a problem to be solved.
They implore him to solve himself but he is tired,
too tired too short of breath for the journey.
He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.
We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.