sharp steel punctures through the veil of night,
the abscess of light surges with silence

if you opened your heart it would speak through you,
it would send word, answer

but sensual death takes millennia to come,
counting its cards, playing hands of hearts,
saint-maker,
who was I before?
a bare pillar of salt, serpent-skin
monument to an unbelieving soul?

but what can I do? in the morning it's gone
by the rising light I want to show you what remains of memory but
with the sun I become colourless
limp and filmy,

I wish you would look through me,
bile sticky in your hands
I want you to read my obituary,
I want you to want it
from me

__

I was unmedicated and heartbroken when I wrote this. Always my best writing. It's nothing like the work of Seamus Heaney but I thought about his poetry when writing this. I thought about this line from his 1979 poem "Oysters":

"And was angry that my trust could not repose
In the clear light, like poetry or freedom."