Perch
It isn't long before I begin to realize
how even from the beginning
the eyes seek out distances,
the weightlessness within the stride,
the satellite built in memory
that almost leaves me to part from these feet;
when bones begin to splinter,
click and creak inside of me
from ankle to wrist--
hip sliding out of place--
like a tired pedestal,
veins snapped from their straight posture,
as the surge inside me slows.
The ceremonies are always the heaviest,
people gathered, hand-linked
just long enough to know
that cells have shut down,
a liver drowns,
and the heart is a temeramental organ;
death becomes an affair of the flesh
as I leave an oxidated streak in time,
a frenetic unseen,
pieces of me
fallen to the ground--
hair, flesh, bone.
Copyright © A Person On Earth | Year Posted 2014
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