Vanishing

I’ve got my own head in my

hands

and suddenly its so heavy

it presses down through

my ageing palms

burning a hole down

towards the ground as

if it longs to be buried,

to be six feet below the surface

of this life,

sighing, whispering amongst

the feeding enzymes and

atoms of the earths body.

While my body walks around

these streets,

motioning, signing, in the language

of life and forward, linear

propulsion,

no one really notices the

empty space above my neck,

no one notices that

instead of expectant brown

eyes there is now only

the odd passing cloud or

the glassy empty blue of

atmosphere.

My body jostles,

pushing fleshy jovial

sounds of bodily existence

out into the world

convincing those

around,

that I

am still

here.

But, long ago now, my head

burned a hole

through my palms,

through the cover of my

bed, through the

grassy cover of the earth,

and now lies

whispering and sighing

waiting for someone

to hear it.