Monday, March 14, 2016

Flesh


He is sick. His kidneys impede


him, worse, they poison him.


But still on warm afternoons he sits


on the porch looking out at the flesh


of olive trees, of humming birds and drifts


into the tenderness of our wind chimes.


He still is flesh. He has warm hands


that can hold things, an iced tea.



On his lap Esquire magazine. 


He is still flesh. Alert, thirsty,


he has hunger.


Body and soul sit on the porch, 


still alive,

still together. 

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