In his height he stretched

cutting through clouds of time

cutting through storms of war

suffering blood

suffering murder

suffering the paranoia that comes

in the silent, black hours of morning peace time

pulling him from the layers of his bed

thoughts cyclic and convicting

A progression cog he was

pressed through monolithic America

stained with the blood of men

of women

of other soldiers

of children

And pulling him from the layers of his bed

his own childhood memories

He

a child

good at math

meticulous

particular

dreams of flying of working of living

little-boyhood channeled

into upright and careful penmanship

And  later

careful loving of a woman

a beautiful round faced girl

George and Elaine they were

reading papers riding bicycles

living in the arid, colonized deserts of Texas

traveling to London

teaching grandchildren how to find robin’s eggs

and locust-tree thorns

and how to love Star Wars and to swing in a hammock

And in the end

He

sick

unable to stand

tucked back in

among the layers of his bed

The girl

Elaine

crouching over

stroking forehead comforting

“Darling, it will all be ok, it’s ok my darling”

Gentle kisses across the forehead and cheek from her

on the left eye she leaves a little lipstick print

And in the dark

in the black hours of early morning he goes…

His old and folded height left

and he

pulled from among the layers of his bed

stretches

toward the Lord

who always loved him

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