epistle three

Dear Trevor,

you may try but will
not at will banish
the fact of rain
nor discourage the sound
it makes - humming, buzz,
drone in my bones
that piggish truth of existence
what will not outlive the
duration of my senses?
consider the motion a mouth makes,
searching for its floundering counterpart
a flurry of motion like
some thing trying to die
a scream becomes the logical
extension of your voice, reducing things
to objects in a mirror
until only a spiny core remains
to speak of the human body and not
to speak of the human body
look skyward, poet,
imagine death and her rewards

-A