Vanishing point by Francis Piché

Life contains and releases:
Fate unlocks its heart,
pressure points spiral down,
concerned faces line up.

Beyond the prick and poke
that go for the heart,
no tip-toeing to
a clean departure.

Eyelids close like black tulips,
the face an alarm-clock of shadows.
The aching back unhinged
like a defeated language,

the power outage, a trumpet’s call.
A cherub’s inflated cheeks
become the cartoon for a guided tour
of dancing ghosts.

The ferryman exhales;
(mythology floats on his sea of black)
transports a body of driftwood,
chest ice-bound in silence.

Somewhere a foundry’s liquid
metal finds its voice
in a bell’s open mouth,
a continuum of vibrations,

the mystery a blur
that opens the chest to sand,
constructs a mountain
out of little truths,

so many polished stones.
The aurora borealis operates
on instinct, its display
no longer seen.

All gain erased,
it’s how the game is played:
oblivious gifts, and birds fly
when you are gone.

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