It’s not a need for death,
but sleep:
without the cut
of waking up against the heat of
endless days;
us,
dragging broken lives
over tangled ill intent and lies.

Woken hours adore hot sun;
break bread,
share red wine,
sweat in folds of satin sheets,
glow in ink of short regrets
left tied
under scented pillows—
afternoons shed minutes
singly.

Cool rain diffuses day-end hues;
attempts sedation
with a fugue
but cleans and polishes the pain.

Drag me up the talus slope
so rocks can scrape away
my sins
as dry old skins of past regrets.
I’ll leave nights of
brambled moons,
wake in rough-hewn
afternoons;
walk in pain
but breath in billows.

For a friend.

Gavin W Sisk
May 2014