Before the Sigh

Before the Sigh

Spent the morning listening to Hurley,
reading Simons, inhaling Salt,
stretching in sheets where white light pours through.
The sky painter has returned from his sabbatical.

He says 'We are all dying," and I smile,
as the Sun tests out the idea of gloaming,
escapes through a canvas still stained upon his palm,
she is no longer grains of sand and old embers.

Clouds rush by as if one can't brush fast enough against the other,
mouths on mouths of plush, lightly crushed rain.
It's wet. Crows call out to that pinnacle,
a pigeon feather dances on air.

The forget me nots are unrising in acid beds,
we, he and I, have been known to be manifestations of dread.
The forked tongue of ice caresses my fingernails,
I dissolve into shivers, let them lick biceps too.

This day will pass in her lonesome hours.
The fear of brash noise becomes
second lung and tastes bitter.
I spark a cigarette, breathe out,

and recall when my hands were the hands
currying dark leather,
when my hands were the hands
that disemboweled pheasants for bones.

Books and writers mentioned:-

Samuel Hurley,
Jonathan Simons - Songs of Waking
Nayyirah Waheed - Salt