I’m shaking from the ice poured in,
a big, sloppy tongue grandfather clock
striking 6 through my windpipe.
My heart is beating at the gun trigger pulse in my fingers.
There is a thin wall inside the curvature of my skull,
made of rubber, sliding like wax.
here to destroy their thinking.
Those who don’t seem to be all too nice.
Change that I can.
Buddhism teaches you how to die, she says, and I take this to heart.
And tonight I see, that the silence, the energy we can spend in the light, away from the dizziness of living, makes us upright. And I quiet down finally, you angels who carry me, and listen to the cloud carried comforts you sent me.
You have always been right.