inspired by Cesar Vallejo
I will die collapsing on the path,
a day ironically unremembered.
I will die collapsing –already I sway–
maybe on a Monday, the day of my birth,
or on a Friday, because today, Thursday,
is spent in preparation for the night, when
the cold Friday morning will grace my bones
and fill my lungs with crisp, white smoke.
Nelson Vicens has died, against himself and
his demons, no mercy shown to the innocent parts.
He inhaled and injected, swallowed and stood
up until his bones collapsed beneath the
only witnesses: the cold, crisp Friday air
and the looming branches, the spoiled dreams.