When a writer dies by Ramil Digal Gulle

when a writer dies

maybe the silence grows

just that bit longer


or darkness fattens

one globule more

as it turns in its

sleep, eyes closed

yet tearing


up in happiness

moist smile lifting

just enough to show

just a crack,

of sharky teeth


i dream of that some

of the time: think

each corpse, mentor

or friend, is a tick


or etch of black

analog ink

on the deadpan clock’s

face. i scent flowers


in funerals, in lovers’

hands haunted by

a hoped-for future


what came for them

comes for us now:

shuffle of feet on

wooden floor, step by


step throwing up tiny

gray clouds of crypt dust

no body no heart

wants to go—but must


as the son, the daughter

mother, wife: apples

red washington

granny green, sphere

of fuji:  all are eyes



all are writing


all are breasts

of lesbians


to the touch


to open the mind,

pry the purple

labial banana heart,

with fingers young

in merest memory


this, the last kick

from the last horse


and many things

yet to unsay, release


as a breath, as falling

leaf:  down, down,



the abyss, may we

fall with a kiss.



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