I remember wanting to live forever,
do you remember the men
who were afraid to cross that line?
Whoever's left now
must be tight and stiff
stuck under sand and skin.
But for me, forty days? In cast, in mind
both in and out of time.
Was it enough for me both to
love and wonder,
without seeds and roots and rust
and the obligation to wander
to pluck and kiss
or defend flesh like abandoned coves?
All washed under mysticism
placed gently as though from
chopsticks to astral laid safe and told
yes, this will be your pain here
and yes, this will be your mind so
think it over.
And once, one chance to cry wait,
look for my family, look for what I have asked
look what love did, father look what love did, son.
While in the other hands a wet and moldy pair
of eyelids set to stitching themselves shut
yes, I think forty days will be enough.