puncture — things longer than a paragraph
still need be said.

as i lay dying

the fall is not the flesh hurtling through the open air as you always feart. it is not punctuated by cracked-bone vibrating through young blood. there is no half-moon of shocked watchers circling silent. no grey stone & metal above. it is not an end remembered, missed or much worried for.

there is no sway in rousing from halting sleeps. it does not rest, await, in the crushed footfalls of raucous mass of men come to quiet the promise. there is no promise. no throat grown hoarse & full of words half-birthed.

go on, throw from your sheets, your empty bed, arms flailing & cracked feet kicking. the fall is not a fight. it is not fought on stained & worn bur bur carpets in run-down tenements. it is not lost in cold white corners buried deep in the heart of river valleys. go on.

chase ghosts. go on.

seek warmth for cold untouched flesh if you must. count on stained fingers the ones got, got away. sum slights and inflate things left & given up to things given. skew the tally. build a stone school of new maths heralding a calculation rendering all insubstantial brought substantial through ceaseless litany of concession. a prayer of lies. the flesh will not warm from without. imagined fingers knot the hairs of your chest & still the falling comes harder while lists of names are recited. go on with it if you must.

i know you must. but this this is not the fall, nor its avoidance.