Matter and Disappearance

I know my heart brings me missiles,
brings me flies.

Between here and anxiety rains ruin.

I see me like the lake
on State road 87, a rumba of trees
hosted by reflection, flickers basted by vapors.
Then my chimney disperses mums
and medusans,
every June day more furious.

Still I believe myself solid, though soft.
An intermediate state
with considerable heat loss,
varying weight coming and going
like a wind
fluttering the numbers on the scales.

Get me while I'm thin.

At the distant end of matter and disappearance
I think of Frank's Leg,
ghostly and afloat over the coastlines,
incinerated after surgery.

My clouds composed of those I know.

Copyright © 2007 Allan Peterson All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission