Fidget that flaxen hole in my palm—

Please, move, just a simple pulse of energy--

of existence.

There is nothing warm left--

or flesh like--

or blood teaming beneath fat.

There is--

Stone.

You are the only warmth--

The hot blood bath--

pink steam.

Of all that swirls in life’s snufflings--

and wheezes

It is: You—that moves.

FellowMan