I Could Die Here

Hans von Gersdorff. Der verwundete Mann. Feldtbůch der Wundartzney (Strasburg, 1528). ((Field book of surgery. The wounded man).http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gersdorff_p21v.jpg

I Could Die Here My fingers unfeelSucked dry by coldPerched on slanting rockWorn smooth by a thousand feetMarching skywardMy flesh betrays meAs I juggle with riskAnd urgency flies I look to my handsFrom my hands to my kneesTo my shaking legsTo my numbing toes

I could die here

On a decaying coastI sat below the tideHigh-marked in greenThe only strand holding me to lifeIs a cable, fraying, unwindingHeld taut to the horizon Gently humming threatOnly sheep would find meThe sun kicked through the cloudsAnd stamped on meNature looked at meAnd looked away

I could die here

Beneath a similar skyA canon of blowsCame to remind me thatYou can take what I haveWith sticks or with stonesAnd fingers that paintMy eyes with bloodIn an ecstacy of hateAnd all I can do is plead“That’s enough!”

I could die here!

Tumbled on a stairUnfound by friendsI have changed shapeI dragged myself from dreamAnd stumbled back to lifeLove did not find meNor hateIn a lonely placeThat has written on my skullForever

I could die here

A coughAnd then another coughThen anotherAnd anotherAnd anotherIn a loop of breathThat has no breath in itI spoke to a friend without speakingShe said “Don’t die”And so I didn’tBut even so, I remember

I could die here

A dusk that does not fadeA sun that does not riseA moon that does not shineIf all of my remaining daysEach oneAre to be like this dayThen I would not want themAnd this can be my last

I could die here

I laid on sun warmed rockAbove the seaBelow the skyForgotten by a million yearsAnd no waking in this bedFrom a sleep unknownThat even god would envy

I could die here

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