Élan vital

1 August 2016

It’s hard to gauge the health of this interaction
because I’m grateful, because the iron fist is long gone,
gabled in the California bungalow of dementia breached,
lead gone, gold siphoned. I have you crystalline
like childhood’s glass statuary, perfect model to perfect
likeness of perfect memory now a figment of imagination.

This digression is well-known but few write it.
An aching of wattle cascades from alps of vision,
a rusty grating one’s only proof. Remember memory,
veins and dimensions. The wisteria is the limit,
the waratah a grave, the orchid a room, everyone’s
dead parents propped up like a bloom. Never your
music to stir some vital signs. A lungful of harness.
It is cheaper to be here as I am, a tyrant of life.

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