green monster

i'd rather know. 
the way doctors prefer 
to die---the old way.
knowing just why
your own throat can
no longer swallow, that
acknowledged deterioration.

when do the fingertips 
lose feeling? at some point,
you don't know anyone. 
the last word
is the vaguest one---i love you
but love is of the body
(especially for communist atheists)
and what does the dying body know
about the living
about living love

in the future, alien archaeologists 
will find our skulls
and each feeling
will be a ring, in the tree trunk bone.
in humble academic circles
maps will be drawn, and exchanged,
our every pain
an aerial view of the sea

every day the old bury the young

burnt & dead
is the skin
where once
i cradled you.

death is a physical anguish -
i dig graves in the frame
of my own bent body

i am selfish.
i want in nights to calm you,
you who are no longer, perhaps never, mine.
but your joy came to me
like cool water on my temples.
there is no salve
for the living