Living, Dying

The raccoon,
perfectly centered on the road’s
golden dividing lines,
is dead.

I know that its body has been there,
perfectly centered, unmoving,
for two days now
as I have driven past it twice,
coming and going.

When the man bit into the plum
the redness of its flesh
looked perfect beside the indigo of his shirt
and the golden light on the pair of them
(Man and Plum)
was as perfect as earthy things can be.

Inside the technology store I am writing
in pencil, on paper
while screens flash beside me,
proclaiming that the past is dead
and science-magic holds the future. 

My chunk of science-magic is failing,
(both the Science and the Magic)
I can see right through the vail,
Glitchy, fuzzy, discolored.
Can something that was never living die?

The lightbulb in my headlight was dead
but in my amateur ignorance
I replaced its living sister
Attempting to resurrect the undead,
Fixing the unbroken.

The leaves of the houseplant drop,
one per day,
in a valiant attempt to tell me
that it is unwell,
slowly suffering the raccoons fate 

Animal, Human, Fruit, Object, Plant—
all only vessels,
holding as much energy
as each can
until the time comes
to release.