At this rate, there will be nothing left for my children. Too much
falling outside the body. A two-headed llama with no head
belonging to me.
all to them
unintentionally by them
Losing ability to see value by which aging matters. Watching
bone-slow deterioration. Using my frame to anchor relations.
Trying to deduce life’s meaning–endgame research.
Sowing seeds of pain in backward gardens planted with wrinkling flesh,
falling from porous skeletons.
fire, grace, motion, lightning
without remorse from each sunrise.
The silver-edge moon no longer sensual,
goading their last warm breaths.
Not doing this to my flesh and blood.
I will die at the right time.