The faded hours have returned,
but lie desperately still—
sharp contours mixing
with the slanted light on my thankless table.

The funeral lilies are where I left them—
in the vase that cordons off
the overflow of my right hand.
My mind wearily engages them

In a test of weakened wills,
neither side giving an inch of breathe
or a sigh of sleep.
In the end, I retreat and build back my tomb.