Every day invisible bits of him break free,
fly off, and leave him simpler, more leaden
than the day before while he strains to make
the daily round, and flesh that used to hum
at slightest excitation dulls to half-life,
his ass depressing the spring of his chair
like a slab of roast beef on a butcher’s scale.
But when he’s in bed, past instants of touch,
the quanta of longing, spark networks of nerves
like manicured nails stroking his spine,
his dream-dome illumined with firework
traces of memory’s decay arcing across
sleep’s deep ether. And so he sinks
every night, marveling at his plenty of loss.