The Wind Against My Shadow

Even the blade of grass, more transparent than memory.
Even the passing that happens unexpectedly
like the cutting of a branch.
Even the delirium grinning behind a mask.
Even the fumbling stubbornness of rectitude.  
Even the loneliness of torture.
Even the cacti drinking the salt of the earth.
Even the infected blood.
Even the vibration of the most distant silence.
Even the sacred mummy of the resurrection.
Even the imprint of your blasphemous past.
Even the unconscious, like a delusional raven.
Even my rage.
Even desire.
Even the heat — human / animal — of bodies.
Even oblivion.
Even my faraway and forgotten home.
Even melancholy. 
Even the child who was saved from the abyss.
Even the cold in my bones. 
Even impotence.
Even my vision, clumsy and obscured.
Even the dried ink of a love affair.
Even pain, like a wounded panther.
Even the fire, consumed and consummated.
Even the water we will not drink.
Even the wind against my shadow.
Everything,
reluctantly,
hastens
	like a tempest
		toward the disaster.