My death rolled over in bed with a sorrowful face.
“Why do you not embrace my torso?” it asked
and for a moment
I became frozen between worlds.
The babbling street crawled in one ear through the window
and heaven descended from the bovada bricks
into the other. Street and heaven clashed behind my eyes
and severed my vision.
But I recovered and to my death replied:
“It is your neck I love, the rough dusty feel on my fingers
when I caress the crypt.” –
and my death merely stared at me,
as if I had ordered a coffee in a foreign tongue.
This piece first appeared in Labletter, November 2012