We are Floating
In brown skirts and hair no longer my own pushed into rhythm by a dance of foreign score the booms of bomb mix entwined with meows and some gutteral coughing and stifled cries It's been a slow tightening around life. Breath comes slow, hard, cold and brittle. Pain and rattle, my fever broken in shards like the small amber, blue and clear glass the bottles of remedy, sticky, still resin adorn walls, each a match to a symptom. Yet around me death hovers near it shakes my chest with bronchi in flames, polluted, cut down, burned and torched, they finally submitted and fell after a very long, bloody reign of pain. We all lie here - each in his or her own mode, time, entry way into the Portal I still run for arnica to administer to my sickest. Suffering still and so with fire in his belly, his legs still shaven. My thin, weakening friend from Upstate. How good you are, happy boy in your prime, bouncer, lover, splat, dash, tom brother, the one to offer kisses and hugs oh we danced and wal
