07/23/2010 § Leave a comment
what he needs is someplace quiet
to fall apart & lay his bones
bare on the dirt from which he is made
like graffiti on some dark door.
of sweat & urine he reeks
& of gutters & alleyways
where dwells only the memory of the sun.
no one’s touched him in a long while
& no one will ever touch him
again like his mother did
not even God–
but still he drags on looking
looking for the fire
long since gone from the pallid moon
while all his sinews turn & churn
into inedible rheum.
for all the good he did
of wandering the sagging earth
he will perish among strangers, intestate
& unseen of love.