A shadow from the left.
My brain hesitates
your face becomes a faint nebula
catapulted into the shadow
(danger is near) but I cannot run.
I am inclined to death or
death is inclined to me.
sight falters, light quivers,
kindles gasping utterance--
poems take birth in the dirt.
The present languishes.
i am captive to here,
frozen in somatic prison
electric worlds moving under my skin
not by wish or decision
--many people watching but no one is near.
Dysphasic voice tattles
my stammering song
mercifully uncoded, the lyrics are wrong
in this anguished sonnet of the deaf and the dumb.
My life between deaths is fine
no excuses made for
cycle of tiny births--
angelic senses intractably opened
by god's hand, some say unkind,
I live and die in the space of this mind.