Porridge and Bones

He holds me
As much as bones can hold you
As much as nothing can fulfil you
It is the first touch the last touch the only touch left
I ask the little girl if they are going to do it now
She turns in her chair and says yes
The bullet comes and my head turns black.
I delete all my names
Finish the story. Cut up the trail.
Put my hands through blonde curls. Girl hair.
The sickness fades when you top it up with sickness
It keeps the bullet from the gun
It keeps you in the chair in the mirror in your eyes where you can see hills things lost places receding little girl dying but breathing in the darkness
regretfully necessarily
powder dust and rotting onions
Alice mixed with Felder in the stoup
No fingers to wipe the ashes on my head.
I thank the man of bones
I know my place in this tower of fools
I pull my hair up close the window draw the bridge
Petals of J falling
Flocking the ground like porridge and jam
Not an ending but a falling
not hard not soft just right.