Cotard

I thought I saw 
In the dulled cement
Of your sink
The reflected ire
Of death’s autumn moon
The fading red
Of haloed leaves, and last summer’s fires
As if the light
Had slowed to a dirge
But, your windows were opaque
Rippled glass, an upraised sea
The spilled chalk of erosion’s residues
Just me, and a hand-sized moth
Tenaciously still, against a drunken tide
Knowing, I am almost dead
While you disdain
Our silent worshipping 

Walking in Armstrong’s footprints

Sunday is the colour
Of black and white TV
No signal anymore
Just the radiance
Gnawing in your ears
We still wear
Last night’s epitaph
In a too bright fervour
Of distorted red and green 
A magnet to the cathode ray
As if the laughable geometry
Of neat lawns and backyard swimming pools
Were the height where with
A half-humbled prayer
You could,
(only sinking slightly through the screen) 
On that pocked and pristine surface,
So easily walk