He conforms his tired bones
to the shape of a bed,
crosses his arms,
lets eyes
go to grey-
spinning the world
a needle grabs dust
on a vinyl LP,
no lyrics,
no melody,
but static
white noise
of an eternal note-
like a line beyond home
is his passage
through dogwoods,
forgotten memories
that exist in the ether,
a place where his God
lives on as a child
disassembling his toys-
letting nothing
but spirt remain,
the awareness of self,
of a future, a peaceful
downsizing,
the sound
of a bell.
