Easter came, then went.
I have this illness, this disease.
Its at odds with resurrection, rising, birth, life.
It wants me
dead.
Dead is not so bad. Yet,
claws in the wood, dragging a steady length of scratch
all the way down.
No. No, if you, if anyone, asks:
I am not ready
at all
to go.
1 comment:
Every day is a good day.
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