It is long coming, death --
in the pause between breaths,
a strange silence
unbroken and fragile.
It is waiting.
Time passes in moments, in touch
and breath and pulse --
the clock moves, and is still
and waiting.
It is long coming, and slow --
hovering in the air
unspoken; a forbidden wish.
it waits -- and waits for what?
Death does not say.
12/28/11
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