I'll hang this out to dry, though,
aren't we in the driest of deserts?
A lizard's skin slowly boils,
under the unremitting sun.
Cancer is our sun.
Cancer will always be our son.
My hand moves with an iron fist. It holds
me to this paper, nose flat against it.
Or is it just stuffy?
My arms grow numb. My arms grow
into
trees...
fill the branches
with dust.
We'll kill this planet. With our cancer. |