As He Lays Dying.

Epistles coil about
the hands of a poet, 
drying like the peaches
strewn about his garret,
each a memento of his
seven slivered lives.  
He 
dies, you see,
those orchid limbs
wilted cyan like his
breath that banshees
for glass and spoonfuls
of goodwill 

spirit for spirit, 
equilibrium is the tattoo
on his arms, and
the sanskrit does not
translate because the
verses are tissues
themselves:
his body is a note,
scribbles from a 
theater of blood,
see how
it bears,
it bares.

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