Dying
this patterned happening
before me
fighting for breath
pained in the chest
having seen half a twisted century
or a century of this tattered species drawing breath
pumping this little engine
my body
my soul my story
fighting for breath
what tears in this pattern
from the holocaust to silliness
like Lucky's little snipes at the beagle
from such small mischieves
we blight the planet
this glorious planet
gasping for breath
I'm going to go home
and water the garden
and cook and eat
and get ready to fly the Atlantic
to see my mother
with death on my shoulder
and death in my face