Schrodinger’s Card

Something secondary to subtitles,
The seance of jaw and tongue
are not in sync.

I place the cards on the backs of hands.

And this moment,
face down, they could be anything.

Is this your card?

The Good Death

She said she was ready.

Whispers making their way through the warm mist in the reeds.

If we can read through the magic of tubes
forcing the breath of life: One, two, three.
Should we?

Replace function with hands of man,
where we breed our gears of artificiality.

The burgundy polyvinyl is in the corner
with the used cotton sheets.

It has grown thin under our backs.

The bed is now home, where the shelter of sheets
will not leave.

Each wall is a rail that our fingers collect.

Are we formed, broken, forged, torn, burned, annealed, refined?

As sharp as breath I cannot take.

Tea

The promise of porcelain.
Words echoing in the sky of saucer.

What have I done to deserve this?

I seep and wait for the branches
to lose color,
the falling into water,
the tendrils of the future
on my tongue.

Leaves the leave to be read,
recalled for the birth of a friend

Salman Rushdie

A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.
–Salman Rushdie