… every touch.

J. K. McDowell

December 2012

 

There are depths of feeling where the pressure will crush

The bones of our weaker selves.  Soul divers know the

Dark, wicked dark, waters there.  My turn.  My time.

 

What are you buying today?  Spirit does not accept

Cash or credit.  Here we barter in belief, breathe

And blood – what else? Yeats says:  “… was blessed and could bless.”

 

Miss Frida puts three dead roses in her hair.

What could be more fitting fashion for my funeral?

Miss Paula smiles, the caretaker trimmed my eyebrows.

 

They tell you, we are here, these are the end times.

Yeh, you’ve heard that before.  What are they selling?

Me, I am always late for those little armageddons.

 

Can these watercolor emotions resist this grief?

Beauty sustains us, yes and the Mystery.

We can live through everything entwined in these briers.

 

So which is more greedy, to write about a friend’s

Death or your own?  Jim, dwelling in that mortal certainty

Moves the poetic imagination to cherish every touch.

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