My body, a glass:

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.

The King,

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.

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