1645 c/o Derek Piotr

you've lost Carlisle

aren't you afraid of Death?

sometimes I need a prompt, a push. a hand
to reach through fog and strike me; remind me
I am the rachis.

the rachis that made these wings is me; when I forget
what flight is, those days exist only to compare
to the times I feel the rachis as my spine, air coursing
through to nourish and lighten.

the days of absence complete the days of potency.

aren't you afraid of losing potency?

I wake and sleep in the same place each day, though each day
I grow stronger, lurch into my years of potency.
you're growing rust, it's coming from your eyes,
it's replacing your heart.

oil is gone from the earth. you follow soon.

(some seed buried deep.
slow rape.)