What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (2)

part 2 in of extended poem I wrote last year

2

Listen; hear it? Gently creeping
beneath the surface and slowly releasing
its slow waterfall down a pale face onto a pale pillow
under some dim, distant night all alone.
It's breathing, it's caressing the face from which it spewed,
it's rejoicing its new life and its gentle decline.
It knows not why or how, but somehow understands its sad purpose and place.
It remains only a faint wet tingling on the pillow
as the night fades into day.

See, the pain is gone but the stain remains,
and it pierces and pokes and prods all day.
It whistles around every corner a soft, sharp reminder
of the long night alone,
and the slow morning that follows,
and the pitiful breakfast that winks and smiles to no avail.