Friday, January 4, 2013

The Death of Flight


A circle is breaking in a hospital bed tonight.
The blinking lights are dearth, and I am writing
in the darkness—the dark is where all words
are born—from this vacuous bench they will fade
like the subtle hum, beep, and breath
of men who have chosen to lose flight.
I need to understand what it means to fight. 
Arms weakly raised to a nurse, he is docile, his voice
speaking from a time his mind can no longer remember.
I must dig deeper.  Why am I here?
I want to come with him. I want to reach behind
to sever these blackened wings from their sheath
and take his place.
Selfish—this is so selfish.
Our ouroboros has swallowed itself and again I have disappeared
while siblings gather to justify the meaning.
He is fighting—don’t they see?
I retreata ghost in a room full of ghosts.