If only the sky could contain you, I would sleep.

Instead I rise and limp through the fog to my shack.

Sip coffee, strum E-minor, arrange words. Listen.

The earth, too, considers you limitless.

Disassembling the chord note by note, I reminisce.

How the indistinct commits its magic.

Indirection, implication. Camouflage. The missing.

Fingers follow the path more readily than the eye.

If the flatted third disappears, what remains?

My body knows its beginning and suspects its end.

The first and the fifth inform our options.

Filling space, consuming time. Rationing pleasure.

I twist my hand, and ignoring the tendon, play the note.

Your last days concluded this vessel. I retain you.



40 thoughts on “Reliquary

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