To Recuperate Our Cosmic Inheritance

I don’t want to be another silent casualty of time.

This body, floating like a sheet in the wind
filling out baggy clothes but underneath empty.

Invoked in a cloak of your own mystery.
Plasticine internecine creeping like hemlock leaves.
Rain catcher redundancy
rots the only, call of the lonely
slaughter in the stony sky.

Sword stuck in the sheath.
Silver liquid drumming mercury.
I need the sound of un-sheath,
the slickness of metal unbecoming.

And so,
Seized by the heat of the meteor
that was your hand
that held
the heat.

I’d do anything to forget.
I’d do anything to remember
it clearly now.

And in the wake of constant crisis
it is always surprising how much beauty this world holds
and how such a small body can hold too so much sorrow.

How much rain must I borrow?