Weaker and weaker

Every day imperceptibly, but inexorably

it’s, goodbye

to sparkle and shine,

to springing movement,

to muscle and grit,

to vital tooth and bone and hair,

to sharp sense of sight, of sound, of taste,

to keen memory and to wit.

Running so hard just to stay in place, to stop is to say

for the last time,




Boxed out

In the hermetic box staring at the lighted box, little box pressed to ear, a flaccid cerebellum becomes engorged with pseudo-knowlege, inflated with transient meaning.

Achieving a vast proportion, ballooned, it floats away, drifts, drifts on, then bursts.