The sky is above me. I, rotting here with the others.

Others, I say
But I mean the old man who thumps
His walking stick on the ground
As he returns home. The sound
Reminiscent of his lost grandchild.
He hears him in the violence.

Others, I say
But I mean the lover on the bench outside
Who is diligently removing the thorns
Of the rose gripped in his hands.
Love must not have blood on it
He thinks and hisses.

Others, I say
But I mean the dog who waggs his tail at two
Every afternoon, salivating at the thought
Of biscuits, of sweet treats and grease
And at last a warm nap under the open sun. Peace is in the shuddering leaves.

Others, I say,
But I mean the father who is knee deep
In the pool, cool water chilling his knees
Feet mushy with mud, nails brown with dirt
Fingers digging into the earth to find the
Plastic toy. His child crying on the shore.

Others, I say
But I mean the kingfisher who looks on curiously
And then flies into the sky water
Mistaking it for a fresh space of air
Emerging like a blue bullet with his prey
In its beak, thanking gods for letting
Fishes fly.

Others, I say,
When I mean life. Rotting in the peach,
In the orange. In the wine, especially the apple.
In the calm and chaos of the sea.
On the beach, miles away on the plains.
Mountains. Rivers. Humans. Animals.
The ground. The roots. Rotting.

The sky is above me.
I, alive.