Death

Even the observation that it's hard to speak of death without becoming trite, risks becoming trite. So go ahead: relish that meal, bask in a post-coital glow, cherish that conversation, hear the roaring applause of yet another achievement. Hoard the mundane, the transcendent, and bury it all with you like a king.

this bleeding against the current of light/ death dissolves what I am or what I'll be/ embalmed photos wherefir rest ajar/ with drops of dead time/ I pawn the memory of you to the last minute/ balancing on the edge of to or not to be/ suicidal birds insert themselves through my ears/ cricket dreams find darkness where I had not looked/ death makes billboards of books I haven't read/ and the ink runs when I open this letter/ available that I was for this moment/ of less than nothing to become everything and nothing at the same time/ shadows opening like petals within flesh