i

In my doom year,
the day of numbers,
my soul was splintered
and I wondered
what part would go first?

That part without knots
that vacated portion
rotted and without mercy
no, that goes last
if at all.

ii

These are the versions,
one is the cancer’s end gate
where it swings open
squeaks and closes solid.
(Yes closure is solid.)

Then, there’s sympathy-
(to a point)
and the long descent
a bittercoldness,
horrified
counting breaths
one,
two,
gone.

iii
This widow has stayed
strange hours
hovering at the side
staring out the window
at red mountains.

iv
Curse this!
I’m ready to slip
between the spots of time
that segment of minus 43 secondth
(Yes I count them)
and disappear
into quietude.

Dave Barber
18 December 2008
Natural Laws

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