my grandfather's skin is tired of trying

to clutch his bones together.

they are heavy with memories,

memories packed thick and weighty,

weightier, even, than the cancer.

his blood is threadbare and worn

out. it wants to get back to the earth

where it can quietly curl up

in ever-drying circles and rest,

and now his veins can't keep it back.

his portion of dust has spent

the length of its lease, and

wastes with homesickness

for the earth from which it came.

now, the blinder-scales have fallen off.

now, thrice-born, re-clothed, re-made, re-newed,

now re-knit from flesh without the smell of death,

he walks above, across a river we cannot pass.

to disappear from our still-blindered sight.

my grandfather eats with us no more, for now,

for he must supper with the Lamb.

may, 2010.