Under a Cerulean Sky
Your waxy face floats. It’s a waning moon
Californian sky. A headscarf the same hue,
envelops your hairless skull, stripped by cancer.
as if you are already in heaven. You want to be
but a hidden canker riddles the brain, replaces
eats a feast of synapses and neurones.
Your brain is dull, dying, gasping to find
to memories through disconnected filaments.
our past desiccated. The veins under your
are a map that form routes, traffic slowed.
“Do you remember,” I ask, “blackberrypicking
Your grey eyes flicker hedgerows, then vacant
yonder. I remember a dead crow on
with squirming of white maggots easing
over a bone
and black feather
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