Today, this morning actually, the soaring seahorse
feels more like a fallen rhinoceros.
The savannah in summer is harsh,
heatwaves rise from cracked earth
in hypnotic columns, waves of rigor
and dessication abandon earth’s hold.
Parasitic flocks of onyx colored birds
circle my fat leathery flesh, today.
Those ancient pains from decades hidden
in rock caves and submerged under shallow
pools of oily stagnant water
roam my tired defenseless body
like pygmy warriors on the hunt.
Drumsounds incessantly pound my passive form,
speartips threaten this sinister stillness.
And the sun, oh the African sun!
It, no longer golden, blinds
my slitted opaque eyes
and sears my skin raw and pink.
I cannot live here now,
this I know for sure.
THIS IS KNOWN FOR SURE.
Let me stumble down to the ground
on one wrinkled creaky knee
and slowly breathe my last
into the calming brown dust.
And now, in the time
of true descent,
dozens of purplish hummingbirds
baptize this sad crumpled bulk
with tiny encircling blessings,
incantations of fleeting beauty
vibrate within
the morning’s
torrid quiet.
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