all day, i thought
this is the day i die
the last day i make my pink plaid bed for the living
before retiring to black sheets of dark unknowing
my big black book i want to finish before i go
which is physical, not a metaphor: House of leaves
i’m reading scenes, navidson, the great explorer, waits for death
and slaughters time by reading House of Leaves [ ]
in my case literature provides no escape
i move to bike rides with a younger boy me
to the big pink bakery to buy canolli's
i splurge on whole milk cause hey this is it
i call and old friend to check up on his kid
no cornet practice, it seems futile
but the day turns to night and still standing, alive
i celebrate my breath, my fingernails, each one a miracle
beautiful skin, attached freckles intact, in place
and aligned with the stars, which are still so fucking far in space
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