Living Will

We go on,
the blind lives, dusting for prints.
The center is everywhere,
the atmospheres smell like a great fire.
We kept a prayer book of paper cuts.
Our walk to the killing floor
a caught breath
of praise,
a fire going out.
Note on our mirror with a map
leading through trap doors.
Hail five thousand years
of cellmates, family plots
and pottery dust.
The library of Eden
willed to a blizzard of relapsing fever.
Rubble-glass and hacking cough,
timeline of higher thought
like a series of bad dreams
march all morning through dark
while storms raid the sea.

Hail Wintertide. Relic of whispers,
one word, maybe one
crossing over.