I WILL NOT TAKE COUNT

I have finished combat with my body.

it is sunset.

I will lay down the medicine,

the pills, the needle,

the strained walk through dripping hemlocks.

I will not take count of myself,

my retreats, my advances.

This is a settled fact at dusk;

my mind cannot recreate

my body’s pain:

as words stain memory’s canvas

the grievous body leaves

and leaves

faint traces of itself.

I will not take count of my words,

my words corrode.

I will not consider sinew,

blood or bone.

I will lie down in the furrow of my belly

and sleep,

dark and cold, but sleep.