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Posted by on Aug 8, 2019 in Blogh, Poetry | 4 comments


Death Bed for John M
My friend, an old ma
Becomes a baby
Swaddled in a sheet
Pale hairless belly ballooning
Blind hands pulling the air
Stub of his penis pierced
With a catheter morphine
Focuses his grey eyes
On the middle air they are
Islands between this shore
And the last dispersing edge
Of galaxies feathered to dust
Behind the lens a disc of memory
Voices asking do you remember
A jolt between naps
Glimpses of the yard roses
Trees he planted as nursery slips
Shade his window black days
Behind ahead a tangle
Of tubes and pills counted out
By his wife who rests a cool
Hand on his forehead, mother.



  1. Nicely done, Jon.

  2. Beautiful, poignant and

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