Monday, April 2, 2012

A Dying Hour

Oh flowers, hovering like vultures
against my limp, vacant core—
you pick my flesh, tickle the hairs
and transfer your sweet perfume to me,
as if preparing me for burial.
On the pinpoint of death, on the cusp of life,
       I like to dwell here. Still in color,
still surrounded by reminders of prosperity.
Though it is not me, oh, dear ‘lions—
not me, follicle, capsule, samara;
he is indoors, obeying his orders
to adhere to medicine and breathing machines.
If it would be me you crave, descend!
      Decompose my bones; feast on my flesh!
      Drain the blood and life from me—
      because I doubt my prayers can rise
      above the thunderclouds that roll above.

He is not dead. He is not dead.
Dear uncle, come dwell in the transitive.