Rooms where there is living and dying
Giving and drying
Eyes, diagnoses either millstones or balloons
On frail necks.
In these touchstone rooms we make our house,
And forsake our spouse
At home, that home. Our promises are full of “soons”,
Our ears, “Next?”
In their beds our guests slumber evades
Cacoph’ny in spades
Sings them restless. We feel helpless, like diving loons.
We are specks.
If I could heal, I’d make us holy.
Ask Death, “More slowly,
Give us more time. More moments for larks’ lofty tunes.”
He objects.
