dead morning

someday we'll have to tell
of how i died and lay my arms
crossed & flaccid as an empty afternoon:
so void of life, my clammy oilskin flesh
two shades too gray. it's me!
but not. i'm peering up at you
through death-weary lids, creepy as a corpse.
no blood left in these veins,
no jump in these legs,
no spirit in this vacant smile--
i lie so still! it entertains
something carefree and curious in me,
the same that led me off in youth
to sneak in trees. Death is hiding,
is the best spot they will never find
nor want: a grotesque form
i find delicious & clever. you know it well;
what crawls in your spine when you snuggle
between blankets and bed, tight-shut eyes
happily imploring Sleep? you then pine for Death.
and all us bureaucrats, all of us! we
know this: bodies aren't the only things
to die.




1/21/09