An Elegy for One Both Living and Dead

I unzip today's breakfast.
Oatmeal heats in a bowls'
glass cranium penciled with
kitsch rose.  Steam raisin,
sugar slime my palette.
Eating I wonder if a stray
neuron or loose spill of 
brine meals down my throat.

Rolling my eyes back,  I strain inward.
Looking for pieces of you.  Standard
issue, for the most parts--
capillaries snap like black snake
tablets on a Fifth of Jack Daniels' Parade
 (No month was ever necessary.)

The heart was its usual sad slab
beating the urge
to stop fighting
to lay still beneath
the dove's blue breast--

Mary?

or some other calm virgin.
To lie quiet with truisms of
a few modest city headstones.

It passed inspection,
though, as it
always will
till I write you
a truism
all my own.