with the canopy fallen like this, and
the sky an eternal beginning, we
are as close and as far as
a sunset, naked
to every unmet
touch, every called-up aching
not spring, but winter is the real
birth of things, the
cold and golden
a promise and a breach
is it better, Barthes, to last or to burn?
or are they each the same thing, innit?
is not lasting a type of burn?
is not burning a type of last?
we can make time disappear with our words, you know
we can stand still and silent, appellant
to the wind, and noncaring, listening
only to our blue breath, our
still-beating hearts, our cheating of death
TAGS: DailyKaiya | DailyRothko | Dogs | Fall2016