by Michael Klein
The body is everywhere.
He knew that when he let it go.
Suspend, the room said to the wire of mind
as it instructed the body.
I think I see him every day: just there: at the edge
of life: where it feels like work.
I think he comes forward through his death
anxious to mark a wall.
But I’m wrong. He wants to repeat a thing
so he can live beyond his taking—a habit, say—something
faulty, that won’t catch light. There’s Kevin, my twin brother,
one day sober, trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
The body is everything.
Copyright ©:
2023 by Michael Klein
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