Losing
This is the vale of soul-making.
John
Keats
No small monument,
he’s
sleepless his last night
seventy
five years on he land he let
fall
through his hands
crumbs of
dust unsalvageable.
Lost to gamble
those six-
sided cubes
in a throw
and lose. They were airborne longer
than I’ve
been alive. Who knows
how wide his
Rubicon – likely
we were
born deep
into it,
submerged, and the gamble
had already
been
agreed to,
the terms set & etched
into the
rib bone holding
salute to a
heart thumping out,
in panic,
in code, I,
I,
I’m broke,
I’m broke
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