The Prognosis

The Prognosis

Of whose DNA and bones

and heirlooms we are constituted

twisted into mirrored strands, gyres

coupling and uncoupling, the semen

of death is bitter.

His accomplice time is impatient

eager to be gone

my back is bent, my head is grey, desire

fails, teeth are spat away.

Come, friend, you too must die.

He was given the customary 9 to 12

months to die, assigned

by the clairvoyants of reason

and biopsy to a point on the decay

curve for an opacity on the lung

the frenetic mind slows

turns from childhood’s incessant cry

for succor, and is overtaken

at an age by an obsessive concupiscence

which wanes slowly to prayers of contri
- tion

as memory sends a fusillade of accusa
- tion

and volley after volley from its stores

of guilt and taunts and black remorse

is this the autumn he will join

with winged leaves and moths and bees

on their glissade to nothingness?

Will the world die when he dies

immolated in its own ignominious fire?

What will remain when God’s

procreative work is finished?

Rhythm