By: Viator

Thin Tally

My fingers are scored with the incisions
of these dry days, my skin shrinking,
unable to meet the square-inch
requirements of the underneath
uncaring bones, so separating
in pain and small slices,

invisible even though
shouting in their sharp zing
until well after I am aware of the results
of inadequate coverage as my cells
huddle too close for their function,

in jealousy of the water that must be shared
in generous flow for one to remain whole.

###

In Trust

We cede the sense of self to parents
for our low years are blind—for others
to witness and take as their own

since we have no need of the remembrance,
which is just a phantom beyond the flesh
and its growing needs that demand and proceed

without a thought or memory spun for later
recall—which will arrive in time we won’t
mark as we cross into the country

of the own-aware, possessing in perpetuity
this knowledge of number one by number one
no longer in escrow but available to be drawn

on for personal use—which might become
a burden in years remaining present
that father and mother cannot take back.

###

Integration

Steam flowers from a dark stem
of the hospital that bear a sign
stating, “no emergency facilities”

so must be of some specialized ilk
of whose mysteries many will wonder
on a driving-by then roll to other thoughts

while that water vapor keeps rising to mix
with the sky’s own blossoms that garland
at intervals the gray barely distinguishable

from today’s layers above this main artery
at whose side reaches this efflorescence of brick
whose light inners string to the sky without

yielding its vascular secrets, yet weaving
the web with all that is open and within
notice to any take the seconds to watch.

###

Fabric to Mend

Atop the flannel sheets, atop the down-filled
comforter curves the caress of the night,
another layer to lull me to pleasant

sleep after another day’s light has left
for destinations on the far side, some
of whose denizens’ dreamtimes are ripped

and rent to blaze of bloodlight by missile
and other evils knived over the border
by a savage with satanic intent to scythe

peace to ribbons, allowing access to demons
all, whose claims are calamity and confrontation,
keeping at bay any blessed dark counterpane’s drop

###

Sharp Eye

The street light thought no one was looking,
but I caught it hiding its ray in an instant—

Pop!

—the light was secreted in its pocket—

until its reliable eye realizes the duty again
in the diminishing of day as it meets night

to mimic what came before even if a poor
counterfeit yet necessary nonetheless

in this civic grid and more so anxious
age to lead the way over ground and through

the air who must follow the offering
of the sun and its substitute if all are not be blind.