Backyard
it may be the other side that vanishes
first.
standing in the back yard smoking a
cigerrette.
a car passes by first the engine then the
lights.
the faint hum of deisel and carbon are
left.
so i exhale once more.
maybe I have a handful of memories.
maybe the clouds are passing overhead.
i remember all those early fall days
the leaves having brought themselves
down to their knees.
what comes next the hip or thigh,
possibly the wrist?
delicate the touch and soft the shiver of
winters joints.
that leaky fossil that sheds
half its sinews continually passing above.
such a beautiful arched ceiling,
with heavy rain soaked lungs.
now i am as a cistern in carthage
kept in remembrance by very cold ancient
stones overhead.
i cannot speak by i may listen.
it is the vapor as i exhale that
dissapears last.
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