I wish to fold inside
myself - what good is there in living?
A disappearing act in quiet
supplication.

No more thawing ventricles,
cracking knuckles, tight jaw
aching. Just slow disintegration
along with the old pile of newspapers.

I've never understood the
use of saving history in smudged ink,
the curled corners
never drying from wetted thumbs.

Will the after, the waiting place, the anywhere
that isn't here be so stained with the grief
I carry? Almost certainly so - as I exist
so it does too.

Let's away with a total lack of
incredulity: it's the least
I can do to wash away all trace
of my being - here.