Death & Other Resurrections by Stephen Mead

Nerve ending in a deadened limb,
whatever enlivens can be nothing but sustenance.

What grafts back interiors?
an underlining of skin?

Your flesh takes in everything, translates
& gives it back.

Can you feel me?
Then make my shape.
Once I was an instrument.  Then corrosion came.

If you breathe upon me
off the rust will peel.  Layer by layer, I’ll strip,
all old masks & worn skin.

There’s susceptibility here.
There’s a resurrection.

Filaments extend tendrils, every sensitive head
fed through the rudiments.

Just so, I surge forth, hook, sinker & line,
reaping what is Earth-less.  It is the heart of the breeze.

Is there a delectable disturbance alive in this garden?

The mirrors are becoming windows.
In you, I look out, entwining invisibly to your infinite dusk.

It shimmers, soothing blue.  I rock here, a tide,
to your spasmodic summer coming.

Stephen Mead
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. If you are at all interested and get the time, Google Stephen Mead and the genres of either writing, art, or both, for links to his multi-media work.
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