shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Tyson West

Page 1 | 2 | 3


Until we reached the peak of Steptoe Butte
where you fell pale and winded on the burnt
foundation stones of its long dead dancehall
I had no sense how strong your illness stood.
You never hid the mersa, bleeding brain
or failing liver lurking for their time.
Defects of flesh no matter how acute
did not define the inner fire that would
burn brightly for your grandkids, art and sex.
From your decline and fearless love I learnt
time's measured not in minutes but the flow
of hope. You rose and deftly swung me good.
We waltzed against the wind. Your pain's cuts weren't,
you laughed, as clumsy as my steps, but suit
this dance. Time's feet fall just as resolute.