After Donne




All morning I have held these ends of me

like frayed laces

I have tried, failed to thread—laid finally,

as the sea does
its dead, down. Now I lie in bed. Christ’s blood,

I’ve read, hath might

by which it, although red itself, dyes red

souls pure white,
and so, when unprecedented heat stress

bleaches and kills

corals across half the Americas,

it resembles
in colour, methods, most particulars,

inquisitions

past; if I rise, it’s to refill my glass

with its old sands—
scroll Instagram, procrastinate getting

on oestrogen,

practice life as a mode of forgetting

through time. Begin
nothing. Ask who, who let slip the future

like a secret

they were entrusted with to keep? Ask where

are the minutes
kept? For whom? How many are there? Swear by

thyself, that when

I have spun my last thread, thy sun will shine

(this bit’s spoken
to God) on someone. Then take the bins out,

wash off your cock

at least—listen. Outside, in each bird’s throat,

beats a lost clock.