The World Is Too Full to Talk About

Death In The Family
It is the end of October and the weeks have passed by
like some mellow monotonous waterfall.
I begin to shed the coat around me
in which I was for months submerged
I cleansed my brain of images of your face
there is no place for you anymore
I raised your tragedy inside my chest as if it were my own
and woke up one day to the sound of having never been any of the things
I worked my whole life to become.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
my skin and tongue burn into something
hideous and fossilised
I pull out some book of poetry which is
older than this entire city
and think of what is and isn't mine.
In the circle around me, one after the other
things fall apart.
this sand and dirt and burning sun
the humanity at the core of our being
your body as something continents away.
a thing which is a joke to dream of
the total collapse of every wish I wrote into
the story of adulthood.
** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Tomorrow I wake up for the animal
which rises impulsively
and lives alongside terror, an unmovable neighbour.
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