Stilled Life


Any notion of progress
now
has rotted to despair,

and seeing you, cold,
in the usual chair,
I know why
wax fruit unsettles me.

The chair
where
you have posed for days,
not waiting
for a caller
or a breath,
not waiting…
just there.

Your musty house
has a guest,
a carcass come
to parody the good in you.
He wears your slippers
and sits with cold tea.
And I silently swear
your second death
may be fragile in me
but will be distant.
That last time
when you are thought of
or your name said.

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10 thoughts on “Stilled Life

  1. This is haunting… but also real and very visual. I love
    “and seeing you, cold,
    in the usual chair,
    I know why
    wax fruit unsettles me.”

    That will stick with me, for a very long time.

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