Triassic Period
the catgut tenor of his violin,
and fat blank dairies waiting for his pen.
But a swamp crept in and drowned all
diversions but one: the venous
drip that slips him oar-like from his
Dismal. Magnetic morphine needles fix
him briefly to this room. He tries to stay
with us. Tries not to sink 230 million
years into Mesozoic eyelid floating
constellations. The bobbing,
ancient, sunken, and toothed
sharper than volcanic glass.
His doctors are not engineers
or backhoe operators.
They cannot bulldoze
clots like mangroves.
They cannot drain an
abdomen like land for heavy
industry. There will
be no search party.
No one will
light a
flare.
 |
--Liz Linton |