Sunday, February 11, 2018

Things, Looking Up

With my last, rattling breath,
I bear witness to all
And to everything,
With no audience but myself.

From the pastel toys
That spun above my head
In cheap Calder pantomime --
They were there to make me laugh,
But they made me cry instead.

I knew that they were alien,
Saw by instinct that they were
Just products of a plastic defecation,
Long before I had the tongue to speak.

But other things they made me laugh.
What things?
Well what's it to you?
Bits of human irony
In stencil on my parents' faces --
I could see with clarity 
Before indeed I had the tongue to speak.

To the mottled ceiling
Now above my hospice/hotel bed.
The tiny speck!
Why must it let me know that it is blunt organic?
Scurry from one crevice to another?

I want to know 
By just whose will you pick a point to stop you speck.
What nanocircuits firing?
And who made them
With more care perhaps than lavishing on me?
Who framed, that is,
Thy fearful symmetry?

My eyes refuse to close.
They disobey me and my jaw is slack.
I am weary beyond weariness.
And so I bid to you oh speck
(And likewise so to you my many broken loves)
A last, heart-felt, blank-stared "fare well."

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