When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your *******,
the doubled purple
of your *******,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that knows no bounds

building castles
flying kites
seagulls' call
in playful flights

in hammock lazing
palm tree's pleasant shade
reading, writing
sipping lemonade

whispering breezes
softening light
ocean's rhythm
lulling sleep at night

waking to the sky
pink and tangerine
strolling in the sand
beside the water's sheen

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that has no bounds

I'm dying, my friends,
but it's okay.
I'm only dying slowly.

I don't have a diagnosed illness, like you'd think,
unless you can count 'life,'
but I think some would call that thought 'blasphemous.'

I can feel the approach of the end,
stalking me on soft feet. A mere breath,
coaxing me towards the deepest sleep.

I've made my bed, so no worries, I'll lie in it.
I've fluffed the down pillows and starched the sheets,
I won't have to be afraid of dreams this time around.

I have a sense it won't be old age that does me in,
but I mightn't die young, either,
not that it really matters.

I'll take my time in this world,
but once the sand's at the bottom of the glass,
I won't look back.

Do I flirt with death? Oh yes.
I've brushed hands with him a few times.
I don't think he minds that much.

I'm dying, my friends, but it's okay.

I'm only dying slowly.

h.f.m.