Dying

Wheeling in senses through short breaths of calm,

time warps and calls divide when

your pitch of intelligence unknowingly frames life into an 'it'.

The night slows and we greet them before sleep,

their bouquet of presence dying into a still look.

I wrap languor like a shawl when fire spreads and voices shiver. When calls vibrate between is and was, I pick up your book.

Chanting humid lines to scoot across terrains of consciousness.

Nerves as fiddle strings are mute or deaf beings.

The photos glimmer like the rectangular square of your street light

till it catches webs of gossamer threads and peep

in moments of uncertainty.

Death has a strange green smell. Those that beat

within blots of red and salt

and horrors at huts and hospitals glance wide within your rounded palm.