In the red morning I lean
over her bed and plant
lips on her chicken skin
and she looks confused
smiles at the touch,
touches my own cheek
with her sandpaper hand
though her eyes look through me.
“I can hear him coming”
she's been saying this for weeks
either her hearing is extra sharp
or his approach is awfully slow
and what a blessing old boney is
to still make me choke on it.
This I will likely forget, think
of myself in this black time
full only of laudable feels, forget
like she - where even the birds
to her have become things.
The television makes baby sounds
and she coos at it. The thing.
Me, I’m mere sense, a cool and pleasant
touch. Her clear eyes say nothing.
What a wonder, the mind that works
presently so quickly, will one day
swallow friends, lovers, chickens
colour and television, all thing.
