A
paper-thin paysan with ribs like ruts
Lies
on the ground, his steel-wool hair gone grey,His flung-out arm glows at the finger tips,
Those glossy nails the only hint of life.
A
priest gives unction, sanctioning death’s putsch,
Crouching
in sweaty soutane to lisp his say,His hand on the man’s hair cancels all hopes,
Firming him for his last faint in a breath’s froth.
Outside,
the equator’s sun packs down its heat
Which
soon will bloat that man to gas and stench;At crux point, limbs aching but nulled of strength,
Self-knowing hunkers in his brain, then blanks.
What
is it then, a hand entrancing his
feet,
A
light which like a desert drink can quench,A selfhood beyond intensity and length,
Knowing no thought or feeling, only thanks?
====================
© March 2015
