Death is there
She said “The world’s gonna die.”
“You know, the world, the earth.”
“Its gonna be over”
And he said “well I never lied to you”
You see I could explain sex in a minute but death I can’t explain
Wanting to die since you ask most days I cannot remember
I walk in my clothing unmarked by that gory edge then the almost unnameable lust returns even then I have nothing against life
I know well the grass blades you mention the furniture you have placed under the sun
But suicide’s of a special language like carpenters, they want to know which tools, they never ask ‘why build?’
Twice I have so simply declared myself have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his crotch his magic in this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oral or warmer I have rested drooling at the mouth for
I did not think of my body at needle point even the cornea and the left over urine were gone
Suicide’s have already betrayed the body
Stillborn they don’t always die but dazzled they can’t forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile
To thrust all that life under your tongue that all by itself becomes the passion
Death’s a sad wound bruised you’d say
And yet she waits for me year after year
To so delicately outdo an old wound
To empty my breath from its fat prison
Balance there
Suicide sometimes meets
Raging at the fruit, a potent bowl
Leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss
Leaving the page of the book carelessly open
Something unsaid, the fold of the book and the love whatever it was an accident