Look at this patch of light, it flew through
The concrete void and finally collided
Into this dreamy scattering.
Is this my gift, or was it ever real?
The drums are fading but my heart catches up,
It is the song bird of the morning, unaware
Of the eavesdropping hopefuls with strained
Joints and eager noses. If I were to break out
The life line on my palm, stretch and subside
Like a book thrown on the floor – by accident –
The ink would be awash with fire, bluish hue and then - -
between the collarbones.
I should be bold and rip it out, my faulty trachea
collapsing in the bitter air
where ghosts of you are lingering.