The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
******* in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.
No more.
What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.
I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.
Camus knows.