You had been in poor health
for some time, a wracking cough
and a nagging sensation in your heart.
The decline of day was getting to you,
the day you thought would ripen
Where is the heavy fruit?
The brain has slipped off the tree,
and fallen sick upon the ground.
You took off your clothes,
dissolved in the wind, stood shivering,
gained an hour of sleep one weekend,
and then slid conformingly
into wintry crystals on the wing.
Nothing seems to sing anymore.
Joshua Hjalmer Lind is the editor of Hartskill Review, a journal of contemporary poetry and poetics. He received his PhD from the University of Oregon.
Leave a Reply