A silence emanates from the surrounding
walls, as they are alive,
a breath for me, reminding
me of existence,
and such, late
Sunday afternoon
and all blood within
a prayer.

A life composed till later.

And now Monday morning comes with a buzz
like a fakir.

Reduction awaits till eventually nothing does.
Old age complete, supine you will go.
The undertow that we know: the tremble, the thunder,
the fallen, the wonder.
Come here to me and breathe Life says,
Come here and reciprocate and
listen full to secrets everyone sows.
Self-deception is good, a night and day turnstile
always understood. A psalm that gathers
and heals wounds. A film projector coughs
putting face to years and soft magic with time
and the months behind. And the months behind.
The hours we've come to love now.
As a mouth desiring song. As a source
conjuring the river long.
You will know this too my friend.
Paid in full, pure, incandescent,
in some forgotten weekend afternoon,
we hedge upon daily increases
till the bough saps and shrugs
and our tensile selves, in twilight shadow, ceases.