Like shrinking tidal islands
or spotlights narrowing:
sucking the flesh in pockets, vacuum-packed,
like cellophane drawn tight about the bones:
the curious eyes
intruded on, retracting steadily,
until they blink crab-like from a shell
dissolving, then, at the encroaching edge
of shapelessness and spongy dark.
I am a medievalist turned poet with three children. My son Raymond died in 2005, at 18. I have two daughters however, and life keeps morphing. Currently I am on sabbatical in Michigan.