To speak of the living like limestone,
as if they were brittle.
Alone and full, I gaze up.
Anything in the sky
– always –
a convex void repelling me back.
Silent, I watched his ankles
dangle from the pier, swollen and blotched ––
the skin a discolored canvas
stretched over puff and bone.
And my throat closing. How to speak of his
illness without admitting decay?
We didn’t. His face towards us ––
now –– a soft presence
through the leaves.
– Bevil Townsend