the dog, the dog, he’s at it again

there will be nothing after, not an afterimage, nor a silhouette. he is tired, too tired to open his eyes—but they're already open, and if he does close them he only feels worse, nothing but the passage of time and the next shift in the light as it spills through a window, the leaves of the tree outside. his eyelids have thinned, can no longer protect the thin, frail membranes that shield the vision from the bright of day. all of the inner parts of him have grown exposed to the elements. if you touch the line of his eye he doesn't move away or bat your hand aside. everything you see when you look at him has gone white and vulnerable. and your soul is heavy as lead. you see his soul, exposed and wet-winged and lacerated, see it thrashing at your breast like a strangulation-victim. you look away and the rustle of your motion tells the whole truth of you; the spine like an abyss, the expressionless face, the taut-cord muscles in his arms. in him all the human mystery is collected as in a single shadow: all its roughnesses, and pores.