Wheels of the cars
flash the sun back.
While the hour anchors
to the infinity of sameness.
Lungs take in more air
and the mind scratches
out a poem to save me.

It will be stillborn.

To test the opaque shell
of this life. I want - not to drop.
Will there be piano music
in the midst of this reel? .
Or has luck, ended the projectionist.

Poems are the corporeal germs.
And no taps should be played
for their death. Mark only
with the broken twigs crosses.
Who will decay, receding
into the earth, after a winter.