The prophet
crowns the hill
stands among this copse of birches
golden white
staring down upon the sea
I remember his eyes in his wound.
Like upholstery pushing out an old sofa’s tatters,
his flesh pushed out from lacerations
Bubbling, almost alive.
I remember her jaw on some red stalk
And I remember he who lives
who spent years among these green walls
who spent years
almost alive
And I see myself with you
forever removed from it
while those we left behind still push out of tatters.
Forever joyful are we here
almost able to forget
almost escaping
almost alive