In the depth of a welcome breast,
crying out,
open heart like lungs,
mouth,
to draw you in;
it’s been so hard to breathe, lately.
Baby, I
place on open palm, pressed,
yet not in lock / step,
give to take, seldom best.
It was somewhere in the cold,
as snow fell on my shoulder,
looking to the heavens, saw the sun at last,
or, at least it felt warm,
and a smile crossed my face,
for the first in a long time,
now walk the rock path.
Which was your final breath?
Was it sweet?
Was it as you always dreamed,
seen, in night scenes?
Did you try, at least,
make good to God?
On a stone to sleep as able;
Abel:
didn’t you know?
Should’ve slept a little later,
all that for some split fate,
delay, the hurt…
resting now under weight, dirt…
Twenty-two,
or however, forever,
when I was with you;
thirteen now, or eight,
on a good day
each as the last,
though none the same.
If, and only then,
blue sky ceiling and so,
well spent,
throat to rattle, shake
calling out for one
to land on the branch beside.
For any number of
days without names,
colors numbers shapes,
then, just like that,
black.
Objects, and the Distance Between Them 