Stroke

A exvolution, as of petals – overblossomed –

hands in prayer that open hingelike, and spread to the winter sun –

what has been swollen ebbing, softing – but still –

alert to the lightest brush – wincing – but refusing to withdraw;

we are still engorged with sun, unwilling,

fatted and feasted and stubborn

in this wane of year and life and blood.

We will not go until we're called: we will not sleep until

God's hand is fairly on our throats, and his thumbs

close both carotids. One more swell and burst of summer;

One more drench of blood, and then we'll go.

Quietly we'll walk the pale blue passages,

the papered walls, extravasated matter, gray and white;

we'll simplify, uncomplicate, and fade

as we go home.