The Mawkish Bear

The mawkish bear lies threadbare in the plain: coal button eyes staring softly past the walking, talking skeletons that people the outskirts of his visage. They’re all knocking on his iris, blurring the open gaze, but he is bat-blind to it. Each husk has a name, but someone forgot them, the slips of brown paper fell (falling falling falling) into the subtle canopy until the silence chortled with a clutch in its corpse throat.

The mawkish bear drifts askance in the sea: there’s a gull with its gullet quirking down beneath the last wave before the moon dies. Still, a parade of ocean ghosts clamor with trickling whispers, the coral elephants trumpet a sad-sorry song, the white horses dance scornfully (mournfully) because the moon-girl is dying and he cannot hear her final breathing.

The mawkish bear moves merciful  in the grass: the dreadful yawn of a smiler wheeling (dealing) stale cherry cough drops. There are children with sinking-ship cheeks across the alley, with empty bowls in shrunken hands, clasping at his fur. All he feels is the north wind’s kiss.

The mawkish bear
(not seeing)
goes silent
(not hearing)
through the earth
(not feeling)
all numb.