The Dead (no. 125) Eliot C.

The Dead (no. 125)

            Radiators siphoning light,

            while the sun makes a buffer

            for my storm-struck dreams,

            tell the story of forgetfulness,

            a history of sound

                        and objects,

            confirmed by the nihilist

                        who struggles just to walk,

                        fill the cup with salt,

            where night outside

          eats its way through space,

            and the souls of the dead

                        are an aching absence

            on the fringe of denial

                                    where inner sounds

                                    profoundly change,

                                      a moth fluttering its wings

                                                             winds into the sky…

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