A song full of black holes

the old man tries to

loosen himself from his


body— a lethargic bow

leaning on an old chair


foreboding the angel of death’s

welcoming, he tastes himself—he


tests his tongue with withering

bay leaves. the birds here


sing songs that whittle down

his spirit and depart momentarily.


sullen, he savours his vanity

like winds that bask in the sphere


of lake albert.

every atom here knows his

body’s taste. but his 

goes on as a hunted horse

with his bones poking at each. 


What are you looking for?