Keeping Count Of Lost Things

Go on, count them,

count the things you have left.

Count the moles on her skin,

those dark blots

of the sun’s bewitching,

melancholic brush

that marks everything, quietly,

for slow death.

Count the moles,

the white hairs,

and the cuts and bruises

of her day.

Count the toenails to the end

until you fall from the bed,

from the world

into the tangled mess

of fallen crumbs and fallen nails

and fallen people.

That lost mess of things

we’ve shed without a tear.

Go on counting them,

all those things

she’s thrown off like underwear,

until you’re gone enough

to fit, finally,

through the eye of a needle.

Scavenge through the wreckage

of her burnt out body,

strewn over a lifetime

of play and love

and reckless dancing

in those flaming dawns

that kill us,

and wonder why it is

you’ve fallen for this one

who’s bound to die.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014


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