Heaving the emaciated corpse of my body
out of bed in the penitent morning,
obedient as a stone,
I realize
when dusk has come then,
I've been left to rot as apples
or the film reel of memory, ashes
in a day or two, at most,
I shall be gone
when Time wraps herself around me,
dissolves me to my core, leaves me like
the sedimentary remains of the Earth
out of whose bowels I have sprung,
the scum of treachery.
There is no repairing
the wretched or benign,
not well-aligned, whatever:
he who wishes lofty,
but is tied-up by terror and the Sky,
he is of me,
is me, thus.
10/12/2016
Richmond
after "Lonesome" by Dr. Dog