By | 3 February 2024

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,
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.

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