To Live

I open a clenched palm, see no solace
to come and shovel blind,
warm sleep
into rotted pearly grates,
always chip-dreaming
to be just dirt once more.

What terror it is to live,
to slap words backhanded
choking into windpipes
fat rusted over, sores hollowed
in silver watermark shells
shining with white moon veins.

The mercurial poison flakes
well of age
with every heart-beaten step,
pricking ends of this sorry speech
that makes this young life bitter
and this old stillness tired.