If all the seeds fell like blood
or blood like seeds into
the ravenous earth and time
was a wagging tail in the dark
then I would know that death would come
by any reason and be a blessing
all on its own. But as it is, death is
the hollow spot of the living – some with
grief and others with fear, and me myself,
it is memory that unbuttons the flesh of my chest
to leave me poked and burning.
It is the hill I climb and stumble
down its rocky incline whenever I return
if only once a day
to meet death’s stalking eyes.
It is not my heart that fails me,
but the things outside
like the shadow on the neighbours’ window
and the frightening madness of so many strangers.
It is here and there like an insect
on my wall, like the fatherly love
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