Saturday, 9 February 2019
the impact
my dead pets become passwords
i shouldn't tell you that,
it's insecure and possibly marks me out from the herd.
the one living now, beside me somewhere lost in here (it's warm)
won't join that roll for a while but we both dream it,
dreams of death
deaths of squirrels and private drownings
in so many dreams with elevators and aircraft
it's not a fear of falling but of the impact
2019
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6 comments:
heh heh. Me too. both things, the pets/ and death. Couple days ago I was laying on my own massage table looking at the ceiling and thought, " These pine plants -- I'd love them for my coffin. I should have cut down some extra trees when I cut the trees for the house. Of course, I was younger then & not thinking of burial. Your poem, although short, summed up many of my thoughts over the last few days. Thanks! elainereardon
Good to see you! Always good to read your poems. I had a guinea pig as a boy who escaped when on vaccation in northen Sweden.
I don't think he survived in the montains for long. Or was he accepted by the lemmings?
Yes, I agree it is good to read your poems, Peter. And pets deserve a poem. Cheers Jenny
Thanks guys! No plus one widget here, how doubleplusungood.
I think there used to be a plus one widget here before. Maybe it has disappeared because Google+ is shutting down in April.
love the poem.
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