Terminal
Press below to here me read this poem.
Too tired to write, too sad not to
There will be no sleep till
My mind is emptied of these images
No sleep till they become words
Heavy shovels of dry dirt
Clumps laid days in the sun
Till the moisture was gone
We knew it would be soon
Skin hanging like old and yellowing drapes
Over rods of bone
Hiding completely the idea
Of any light, of any vibrance
Petite clay bowls painted lively colors
Holding colors orange, ochre even tiny blue
Matching that in your tired eyes
So many pigments to choke down
Images before the cancer
Healthy and I suppose robust
Disappeared deep into a forgotten happy corner
I'd lay my head on them if only I had them