on walt whitman knowing his body will decay

body, do not flutter
like a kite
in the sudden, open
sky, wide
arms of a wooden cross
gone soft with rain water,
a flawed bird in the wind

tether this body
to something,
even itself to itself.
tightly wrap the sinew
to the bone, coil it closer,
denser

somewhere
in the permanent dark
where there are no limbs,
bottom-sea stones
are hearts without bodies,
full of patient longing.
if you listen,
sighs, without lungs,
never taper