Descent

When you are ill you weigh more.

Your head sinks into the pillow,

Your bed curves in the middle,

Your body drops like a meteorite.

“He’s so heavy,” say the relatives,

They turn you on the other side

And nod meaningfully. “He weighs like the dead.”

The earth feels its prey

And concentrates upon you

Its colossal force of attraction.

The iron in you hungers to go down.

The gold in you hungers to go down.

The gravitation of the whole world has its eyes on you

And pulls you down with unseen ropes…

You look like the bell the peasants

Take down before their exodus, burying it very deep,

Marvelling at the sight of the bell digging its grave,

Eagerly biting the dust.

You are all lead

And unto yourself

You have become exceedingly all-important,

Surrounded by endless mystery.