Mortality in four parts

One.
When my feet are drenched in sun,
or the luminous mermaid-light of
purringcontent machines, sometimes there is nothing
in my head but that which was placed there,
and the fireworks that go off every hour on the hour
mark no turning points, no mile stones,
but graves like magic, an arrangement of rocks
that your soul might never see. I
don't stop because they, dry and dusty,
weigh me down.

Two.
And when, in Capernaum, I feel your spirit
(claw of cancer singed with the wick of you,
tall strong and filled with light)
is it really you or is it my
memory of you, a subconscious
risen from a part of me
(handful of cells) that has become
an imitation?

Three.
Is a dead body like a chrysalis
wrapped in a white sheet, sleeping for eternities,
eyes shut, mouth shut, blood no longer running?
Entropy worked its way in and stopped your heart's
ticking, stopped your cells'
breathing. Intangible,
what was you is left,
seeped from the holes of the brick your body is become,
not a hollow shell, but solid unmovement.

Four.
Matter for the worms and bugs, a reward
for digging through layers of wood and cloth,
rot.