Perhaps you thought you were an oracle,   a mouthpiece of the dead.   I can see now the way our story's strangely allegorical,   and somehow until just now   it all had gone right over my head   until you toppled.   The rockslide dust tasted like sharp lead.      I crawl over your old and molding remains   with impossible cleaners,   I boil water and pour it down your frame.   But you are comatose or lame.   And no matter what I tell myself,   my colossus has fallen   and things in our lives will never be the same.      Where are all the miracle vitamins?   Where are all the miracles when you need them?   (I will grow an engine from the soil).