Death

If I were to do it all over again I'd hold a mirror close to his mouth so his last breath fogs the glass scores his lungs' last dance hang the frozen condensation in my living room and watch the mitochondrial sunset as if I was less alone

Stilled frequency. Death tuts on the glass of delay while buzzards mornings. . Embalmed hours in jar-shaped fingerless gloves, faceted to dissolve perceptibly. . Death collects souvenirs of shaken mountains; fingers punctuate tomorrow between phoenix fossils and ashbeat Paris sidewalk spasmos. . Death is the thyme in the refrigerator , the bold cork that won't pop, the back tonne of old weighing scales. . Dazzling: the cry of the matches thrown against the clock. . Dead phrase: the closed-opened mouth stretched on encore. . Then candle, noun fragile as the frozen wave of a suppressed gasp.