All of your meaning, all of your integrity or looks
—it must be put into words.
And the words come without clothing.
~Howard Thurman
I will admit to fearing death,
though not the dark passage.
It’s all the indelible living,
marks of this awkward lumbering
through embodiment,
what I won't have time to redeem
though not the dark passage.
It’s all the indelible living,
marks of this awkward lumbering
through embodiment,
what I won't have time to redeem
or erase.
The one nearest my heart
archives compulsively—
tastes and words and treasures—
lest he be forgotten.
I disintegrate compulsively,
lest I be remembered.
archives compulsively—
tastes and words and treasures—
lest he be forgotten.
I disintegrate compulsively,
lest I be remembered.
But the body can’t live and be silent both.
It speaks all it does not intend,
leaves residue and imprint,
like the shimmering ghost of the snail’s path,
like the improbable weight of a chest full of moths
pressing down four feet—
perfect circles, perfect square,
perfect uselessness.
It speaks all it does not intend,
leaves residue and imprint,
like the shimmering ghost of the snail’s path,
like the improbable weight of a chest full of moths
pressing down four feet—
perfect circles, perfect square,
perfect uselessness.
Inevitably, what will be left of me,
after all the ventured obscurity:
tax returns,
sloughed skin,
uneaten greens,
love, intended.
