the portrait was all cyans and teals
set to a landscape of dust
little accents of yellows
especially in the man's hair
he was bare naked
once pale skin darkened
charred boiled and burned
like a half potato dropped repeatedly
hanging from the gallows
nooserope suspending both
his body and the bed in which he slept
dangling in desert wind
that used to be a hospital bed
it used to be a bottom bunk
used to be a cradle
his eyes were closed softly
some say death is nothing but silence
and if it were left up to silence
he'd have never got a wink of sleep
or ever found himself
but the sound of crisp woodburning
and the howl of the coyote
and the sway of life on the turning earth beneath
was always his lullaby
no, I was never well
May, 2021