This has something to do with the passing of Leonard Cohen. At least, I suspect it does. Or maybe it’s just another meditation on mortality. Either way, when I finished, I sighed and slowly tried to disentangle myself from the world of the poem. I wasn’t entirely successful, as I’m still thinking about these two hours hence.
When she could no longer feel
her arms (her legs went years ago)
she summoned him with her mind:
You must come now. No questions.
He arrived at dawn, boiling with fear,
grinding his teeth into paste.
He found her in the garden, facing
east, whispering to a makeshift sun.
He gathered her up swiftly, kindly
and offered a blue prayer to anything
that would listen, any god or mortal
with the power to turn minutes into hours.