Death, what will I do
with you?
I can’t hold you.
You’re too dense, too small,
your razor facets of unmaking, unknowing,
unbeing, negating and nevering. You sit there in your ashes,
a hard, possessing lump, encased
in your own silence.
Don’t look right at me.
Don’t look at anyone I know.
I hope you can’t hold me either,
but we’ll see.
