Lately, the increasing-
ly lowering ceiling
of clouds
has pressured me
into something like
a lotus position,
having bequeathed its
most immoderate gift: time
to consider
how best to construct
one's life, beside
the sturdiest dam
of grief
one can find—without so much
as a thread
of hope
for recompense.
So I figure,
as long as I'm living
out of my mind—that means I
can't die. However,
to be still, to lie
supine—even with
all the bombs going
off all around—that's
not exactly
an unshakable feeling;
that's more like
me—unmistakably
moldering away.
