Soup Of Suicide Poem by Robert Combs

and where do we go
from here alone
on a beach it's time
clicking like the sound
of dried bones
rubbing together
inside the casket tumbled
by the fault line

once more the ocean
rushes to shore and
I find you again
death always near
like a clock's tocktact
flung deep beneath
the moon spiked surf
against the call

the call of heaven
waiting for misery to be
folded again and again
into the soup of suicide
along with the jagged edges
of last night's immediate dream
where I put you on like a mysterious coat
and you spoke to me in a foreign language
I answered you
sounding like the grinding
of a knife being sharpened against
a wheel of stone

what was it you were saying
what could I have been thinking
saying
what it was

I said