My mortality continues to affront me mercilessly —
Writing a letter, I imagine it old and yellow
in a distant descendant’s hands, exclaiming
wonder at discovering such an ancient document.
Walking under a concrete tunnel, I envisaged
The crashing collapse, and the newspaper headlines.
It took a year to emerge into the light:
Each step felt like wading through cement.
I discovered myself clutching a knife in shock,
contemplating surgically removing something intangible
from my stomach, but decided against it.
Motor vehicles enjoy the exhilaration of almost,
but not quite removing my toes,
and i resolve to drive carefully myself
(for the sake of others)
But realise I am risking my sanity.
I am sure to die of some disorder
of the pituitary gland.