#431

There's half of me,
lunar half,
crescent half,
the scythe inside my body,
that sliver of bitterness,
the smoker's lung holding
all of my patience and general
goodwill toward man,
a task to master ignoring,
the deep breath meditation
adjustment and the conditioning,
like living with the same
crispy bandaid on your arm too long,

and peeling it, finding the thousand
ghosts that loosen themselves
as that space fills with air,
finding yourself chucking a rock at
two old ladies carrying a stained glass
mural of Jesus blessing two old ladies.