the night shadows bleed tricks
upon the walls, and we, wet flesh,
sighs, and twists that vanish in the mist
of night and all its ghoulish subjects,
are we more than what we keep?
No more soul than silver, temporal and quick.
Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?
Who were you before, what person did you shed?
The font of being moving persons down a list
and we have the dead beneath us and in our breath.
This world we built on worlds before of things
and things and things that we can’t hold or keep.
I am countless children digging dirt with broken sticks.
Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?
Of morning and the gentle pressures as we wake in bed,
this shining, drawn-out dawn on thick
clouds in windless skies of blue-pink mesh
has made a yelping yawn, a wick
to light the skies, and you are here and fit
perfectly along my back and bend of knee.
We are countless children digging with magic sticks.
Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?
When you gently touch the inside of my wrist,
I am here in this day and in past and future weeks.
We are a tendon trimmed with feathers that persist.
Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?
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