Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Riddled (new version of "Anyway"

I wish to die a slow death
riddled with something
incurable -

lose my mother tongue
the ability to smell fries and vinegar
or new rain on the fur of spring violets.

My cat curled, pushed
against the weak flesh of my belly
her purr a movement of fur

keeping time to the metronome
of the bedside clock,
my breath a rattled score

sung to the earthworm turn of seasons

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

the old riddles are the best, I hope..