Death is what I hate to think about
but always do--
my beloved self
sprinkled to
the bottom
of a shaft--
a moonless pit
of everlasting
night,
my flesh no longer
flesh but chimney
grime.
A hole with no decor
or time, devoid
of all accord,
of wonder,
where nothing will
or can be done,
where everyone
sleeps
with everyone
