At grave side, the granddaughter of the slain leader suggests that nothing can replace the caress, the knowing half-smile. Luminous clouds burgeon. Now, the man doubts all machines, forgets to wonder, no longer stares beyond. Astrocytomas and other lesions press down invade vaults of memory leaving catacombs. Beyond the mourning unborn stars feed on hydrogen, dust.
Stars begin with collapse.
Robin Lindley is a lawyer working with medical-legal issues in Seattle. His drawings have been published in Seattle Weekly, Remedy, and Newsweek. His poetry and drawings appeared in the first issue of Switched-On Gutenberg.