A slight mist, an autumnal sway,
 celtic, crossed and re-crossed, 
we’re on our way;
a watery calvary 
stares back at me.

Delving into this thick unblemished air
we dead coagulate at Golgotha,
in Palestine, where two thousand years
plant horrors in our minds

from which we cannot escape
despite the divine interventions
of the very best psychatrists — 
we dead capitulate -
thicken our presences
— our dying words still stretched
rampant upon our cracked lips.

We spit out the blood
of our vanishing lives,
unfixed, unbridgeable;
life ebbs, flows, neap, tide,
taken on the full
we are gaze out of our child’s eyes.

No pearl as deep, as precious
wrapped up in ourselves we are
taking comfort, making-do,
 as the decades leap, careeringly

into our younger selves
giving chase to chimeras
unceasingly, till now
things of no consequence
entrap us quite, till now.

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