… of death.
By J. K. McDowell
June 2019
Between the darkened hours we ponder the charcoal
Sketches of nameless terrors in undimensioned forms.
Unseen, not alone, we drink tears of blood in dread.
Quiet, keep moving, these flesh trade tracks are fresh.
Flash card meat markets mesh with glamour and glee.
I hear the mermaid mornings overflow with grief.
In the blurred-pixel image, no one is saved.
To the end, they held tight. And we will do less.
They are face down, drowned in our shallow regard.
Buried in an avalanche of apologies.
Shards of hallway mirrors haunt our memories.
Candlelight conversation, regrets rein regardless.
I squint to focus, the outline forms in surf and foam.
A grey whale corpse aground on a west coast beach.
I have no grip, no grasp, on these things you show me.
What choice: the calendar, the hourglass, the door?
The splintered eye casts a confused vision.
James, welcome to the caravanserai of death.