for Peter Liotta

The cat is a bag of broken plates.
The mother an eggshell unsteady

On its saucer. What star is that
By the moon tonight? She would

Not say. The great aunt shattered
By the pickup she puttered in front

Of, helicoptered to a last hour of wires
And tubes. Something shifts

In the sack of life and lights weaken,
Something sharp pokes through.

But you were young enough and nobody
Was ready to see you weakened but you.

Before the burst of flame met
The gas tank an explosive inkling

Of it had already set you alight.
I can never be in the seat beside

You and pull the wheel
Turning the tires from the brick wall,

I can never change your mind
Though you changed mine

But in any loved thing’s last moment
I hear your body turn as it always

Did, away from people and toward
Something in the twilight flying by.

7 thoughts on “Dying

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