The spreading started
with your bloodless toe, turning black.
It was your leg, I thought.
They cut it off and threw
it in the trash.
Leg gone, your soul concentrates
in your residuum while you sling
a dun limb along
a crooked phantom, its toes
every which way.
Yet it is my soul, spreading thin
along your duskiness,
that’s gone before you have to go.
