Death rides a pale horse and wears black armor
and canters around the lattice-work
neuron filagree inside that makes you
say yes and no and good-bye.
Death is ineluctable, hollow and final,
and lives in the syncope blink between
sink and floor brought about by too much
sick after a bad tuna casserole.
Death does not change you. Death does
not free you, or shape you, or tell you
anything about who you are. Death
is the penultimate blank.
Death forgets his first Christmas card
in the trade paperback where you stuck it,
then rips and sticks tape across the seam
of a box of books for the local Goodwill.
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