He Does Not See Dew On The Grass Anymore

He threw up food, thick mucus throttled his throat;
I made him lie down, floated flowers in a glass bowl,
lit an aromatic candle and fed him soup sparsely spiced.

Now he lies in deep slumber. I call out every half hour,
I hear my voice travel miles where he has stacked away  
memories of me  that he is willing to leave behind.

(Day 16 – A ‘stacking poem’ for 2010 November PAD Chapbook Challenge)

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