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Death-the-Drummer |
And so it was
the magnesium burn of morning
emptied itself, long and deeply,
into the dampness
of afternoon.
Suicide was a shadow:
it stood, listening,
without comment or jurisdiction.
This slouching beast that is you,
this slouching beast that is me,
it talked and drank and followed tourists with cameras
and documented the movements of nephilim.
I could not look over at the shadow in the corner
with his razors and smoke
without seeing the mirror you held up
to check your features, see
if your solidity was still viable,
your vitality still in a state of flux.
You are the one whose mornings echo the pounding
of insistent doors,
you are the one whose cadence takes its fill
of magnesium and exudes that light,
you are the one whose shapeless greys and starless browns
echo the tangibility of longing fingers.
Encased in that sweetness I come home and find
the afternoon has overtaken you,
the burning pushed away
like a quarantined malamute
not breathing, not breathing again.
copyright 2017
Robert
Beveridge |
