Death does not scare me;
It looks like the cover of a book -
I have ripped out it’s last page for fear of
It ending. I may not
Read that loose penultimate leaf. Yet nobody but I
Is permitted to design it: this last shard left
Holds my dying breath, and the words
words words
words
I have left behind riddle the spine
Until it is hollowed up. On some cement shelf;
It’s fondled, daily, by an old man with a cane
With questions about
Who where what and when
To pass the time of his own