She's such a curious master,
humming silent songs beneath all the royal blues
and magenta yellows of life. She breathes
in and out, away from here to there.
I am taken in, wound twenty seven times,
by the swinging.
If the number were sixty,
would it be enough? Can so many years, thrown immediately,
mercilessly to the echoing walls of memory
be enough? I imagine not. Yet,
she lead us on, tugging gently at the
ephemeral leash slung tightly around our necks
"One hundred and four," she declares,
perhaps asks, grinding her words as crystalline pebbles
rolled smooth with the vibration of age
and frustration against my mind.
No. Even still, I would want more.
One, then. My daughter sleeps, having bled
all the red life out of living for this
one rainy day. One, thought so small
and still, survived with more violent
sparkling shards of passion than me.
It strikes me, and death smiles to herself,
is pacified, grows stiller at the thought:
it is time. My fear should be not of th