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

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