8/23

sick.
i can't catch my breath.
rub the space across my chest where i think it is, lives, grows. i won't see them grow, won't meet grandchildren. the consumption machine, hard, gray.
i fade
my hair clings to everything but my head. patchwork, eyes sunken i stare the hills i use to jog.
she is here, all tears and ready to fight on.
she is here all tears talking don't talk like that, this.
she is here with all the past love notes taken pasted over doctor's notes. pasted in between the pages of facts sheet.
so you just got _______
long lists of avoidance.
long lists of no more no more no more!
i try to stand and fall
try to reach out and grab hands with force.
ah, the fucking regrets.
i won't see that wedding.
i should have just ...
vomit and curse and push out silence.
she won't leave me alone. sucks each second dry, stalks looks over my shoulder.
i had to call my mother, goodbye.
pants drop in embarrassing places. too thin.
i get lost in shirts and sometimes catch blood on my hands.
who writes poems anymore.
i'm sorry.
i get tired and lose the night. pull another link from my paper chain.
i get tired and fade.
the autumn light is warm. is a lover's lips across my bony shins, shoulders, cheeks and forehead.
the autumn wind is
cold. violent. slaps my cheeks and bosses the shawl
bruce springsteen
firecrackers
christmas
things i'll miss
my son
wife
late night smoochathon's
her breath now, on my shoulder
reading this
things i hope i don't
let heaven open it's glorious gates
let heaven be filled with amnesia
we fall asleep
with the phone in my hand.
i got a check list
who to call when.
there is the alarm clock
there is her breath
her closed eyes
hand on the space we think it lives
even in her sleep
forefinger
drawing a cross hoping to praying
to cursing it away
always committed
amen