“Avert!” whisper the lavender ripples,
“Leave me be. There is a muteness
in my mouth, my mind; a tightness
in my many limbs. I have no interest
in you, nor you in me. Let me be.”
But eventually something loosens.
Is it a coming of age? A kind
of wisdom? Or is it nothing more
than that loose-limbed fatigue
which recognizes death, while not yet
here, is approaching, and somehow
there is a hunger that is part of it.