Oni Buchanan Death Parachute

Over the chain-link fence
a burlap fabric was tethered.

But the wind blew.
And while the corners of the burlap

stayed tied to the metal grid
the interior cloth billowed out

and the sunlight on this predicament
created two fences: the fence itself,

and the shadow of the links cast
on the hovering surface of the billowing cloth,

inscribed in dark lines upon the weave.
What could live

between those two fences
pressed so close together? Seared by its

exclusive grid, perfectly seared, branded
by a meticulous chain—

We thread the selected planes
together into "sense" —

A parachute of death releases itself
from the black backpack of a life falling.

To be surrounded by the colors we love
and the aromas most enchanting and familiar to us!

Golden shafts of grain envelop and brush
the gentle body, a caress of fibers.

A soft billowing buoys the body up—perfectly—
Everything is easy and light,

weightless, effortless; the eyes
can hardly stay open except

the passing sky amazes.
Nothing has swayed this

life before and now it's
too late to convince, only

soothe, agree and ease the transport, relax
the last tensed muscles, release

the expectations, everything
is right now, everything is

fixed, the disappointment
falls away—


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