Last Rites Poem by Ian Keenan

In the thin-veined glimmer of his skin,
Grey-skeined like the rain's myriad
Tributaries part and join and switch silently
On the window's pane,
The torment of his slate green eyes,
Incapable of sound, cried,
His heart's spark a heatless gaze
Frosting in vacuity,
His bolt shot.

In this, his transformation to non-life,
I recall how frightened he'd been
In case he missed the grey, papier-mache pot
With his last pee,
As though his soul might similarly be soiled
In perpetuity.