The edge

We are at a tooth’s edge of mutterings, onto a blanket white wall of vertical sky. We bang in it in our moment of protest only to grow horns like a dark evil one.

We are at edge of bed , at hem of skirt ,the tip of nose, the end of lip corners ,the end of the words, an end of throat ,near a vertical sky made up of blue vapor.

We are at a horizon of blue mountains and the horizon is at the edge of bed at the start of the vertical sky of vapor we bang our heads in and grow horns.

(Recalling my mom’s dementia journey before death)