I beat Consuela ’s Abutment
on a whim facing death
It was an eight foot piece
of broken guard rail
I found on Fifth,
On one of those first afternoons
after life went away while
walking for curbside Chinese.

It was the year of containment,
from a disease that will lead
to more. And as I gathered myself to carry it home
(to 16th n 9th n up ten stairs)
I saw the dichotomy. The empire
before and after. The ballast of death,
the unfixed life.

I hammered her, burnished,
Tempered and milled.
On day eight a shortness of breath.
So I melted down
my final assertion
and added the golden sprinkles.
Beauty In a Pile
I was gonna call it
but it seemed so priggish,
Like it was me piled up
all alone: A horizontal cockle,
A vertical crease.

Everyone hits
Consuela’s Abutment
sometime in their life.
En masse. Lone wolf.
Lost sheep. At war.
Consuela was my hospice nurse
who cooled me. Gave me her breath.
Who showed me mercy w/o labor,
and filled my wait w/light.