typically the rain collected in buckets placed at the terminus of gutter is enough to water plants in the greenhouse

and what do you do
in the confused light
of a failing face?

we get a shuffled deck of years,
most of us. aging
knees in a public park,
a settling
into our seats.

dry feet take so much
oil, as if we don’t already
on our wandering tread.

gravity takes
the statue of our grandfather
and stoops him;
terrified people,
mostly men,
from the wounded
cave of their belly,
as we try
to remove statues erected
to the question mark
shaped ghosts of those
rolled over by
Time’s unblinking

gravity takes
the Rubenesque and
gathers their erotic elasticity
in sloughing
elephantine folds,
around ankles,
at our threadbare feet.

i might like to bend
down on to these aging knees,
not in full prostration,
folded enough so i can
look into the Fall flower eyes
of migrating forebears.
their feet are smooth and
they take so much oil.

what do you do,
who traces these
words with tip of tongue,
prick of eye?
i open a bar
of chocolate, 92%
and allow myself only
what God gives me
in its unplanned break.
the chocolate bar is scored,
even my destinies bear

a crumb,
escaped from
chocolate bar wrapper.
already softening on
kitchen counter
despite the 45 degrees
of southern Alaskan
Summer evening.
i smear it
into the pointed tip
of my blunted finger,
and attempt
to bring it back
into life,
in the ancient
tomb of my
hollowing mouth.

i am unable
to process
the flood tide
of grief
so wrap myself
in riddle.
as coward
and as Human,
aching to

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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