1 November
Finally, isn't it better. Wondering about the chain, the delicate filigree of onehundred years ago. It is true that the brain dies, but you see, giving sustenance till the end is righteous. It will matter.
The incest of a body alone. Empty of others, the hands of legs or the wrapping in a bed together. The door from here is too far; the brain is actually dead. Just still moistly warm. I could drift away right then & there! The flickering four candles emitting their faux vanillas. My own true lavender to light me.
The lights on one, the closed windows, another. The better friend vegetarians. My cells growing, the thick of arms and shoulders. I am awake alive and it tastes hungry in me.
