~
the Nth culling
~
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,
retuning his returning
to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
Nth
love poem
smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,
why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words
when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
Ruth,
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize
those Nth breaths,
that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time
