this life

there was a life in the

words that fell, swiftly

as a child falls

when mother's eyes blink, deftly

as the hammer falls

when father focuses his brow, solidly

as the flower falls into rhythm with the casket,

but,

this life is not in the words that swam from edge to edge of every page, pooling emotions into the description of a tear

this life is in the tear itself, and

in the drowning within it

this life is in the braille walls of concrete and skin scraping, skin deep 

into the waters alongside a pleated lounge-chair

this life is under the pale nails seen tapping this screen,

but no longer within the screen itself