Penultimate Rapture of Aphasia

next to finished

dreaming of summer
 it rains steady as granite
  seeking the pain of death.
day after week after moon,
 burnt air as excruciating as today.

language has left me,
 maybe I am a poor host—
  as you can diagnose.
save me from phonetic addiction,
 let my consciousness,
  slip into your womb.

melancholia is a cloak
 for the unripened belly.
I am transported to the abode
 of dispossessed spirits wondering:
  Isn’t it strange that in this wild river
 I’ve never been nurtured like Moses?

It is my karma to live alone and confused
 with yellow cat fogs.

The rain stays away
 cuddling my darkness.
It is not enough.
It never has been.

I am orphaned. Abandoned. Unspoken.
Thoughts and prayers are wonderful fragments.
Flowers trace a wandering fragrance.
Mirror shards skittering, gleaning
  wet with broken pigmentation.
Alas. Get rain etching as epithet.

  This isn’t good.

But it is mine. I will not share..

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