It would perhaps be funny –
How I can’t help but watch.

His eyes are closed in the unlit corner –
I’m using up memory recording Rosie’s weeping.

A hand is held for a sheet to be creased.
A face is only a face when it moves.

Over the course of my re-visitation
I have realised that I am the orbit for that which cannot,

And that, record as I might, these
Views still come to their ends.

I have realised what it means to smell the coldness
And feel the sunshine of a life outlived.

In truth, I’d rather watch you do it
Than have to do it myself.

But such is my build:
I must disclose my close-ness.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s