The day becomes translucent

like oil-stained paper

the hand goes first,
morning light passing through it

while shielding

            the eyes
from bad news

  later as they speak, sound

through as well

     like tin and static:

                       the muzak heard when
           put on hold after every

                         prayer or exaltation.

there is something surrounding that doesn’t
want to add or subtract there is

no sum at either end to
balance the equation

no lead-in
or punchline
no recitative
or coda


an aftertaste of pain behind
the eyes sharp like metal

     and the untiring throb of a
                           missing limb


© David S Smith 2017

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