It would perhaps be funny –
How I can’t help but watch.
His eyes are closed in the unlit corner –
I’m using up memory recording Rosie’s weeping.
A hand is held for a sheet to be creased.
A face is only a face when it moves.
Over the course of my re-visitation
I have realised that I am the orbit for that which cannot,
And that, record as I might, these
Views still come to their ends.
I have realised what it means to smell the coldness
And feel the sunshine of a life outlived.
In truth, I’d rather watch you do it
Than have to do it myself.
But such is my build:
I must disclose my close-ness.