XXXI. Staring at the Ceiling Fan. Then Not.

Slow black blades
Electrical flicker of maybe light
Counting out, in, down,
Counting down the crawling days—
*******Does she love me?
—Before my body's breakdown.
She spoke in dactyls for me.
Slow black blades
And the electrical flicker of short-circuiting eyes.

Not a dream, just a long, slow thought.
Slow black blades
And the twitching in my nervous wrist.
Two lines today, count 'em up;
One for you, one for your whispered dactyl—
*******"I love you" doesn't mean as much unmetered.
Slow black blades
My tripped-fuse, failing eyes,
And nothing lasts forever.