Oh Death Thou Comest when I Had Thee Least in Mind

At night I play The Butterfly it is raining I have mismatched socks
No one is allowed to speak


Things are clean the metronome ticks when I let myself down
I am lifted face up smell the dead


Roses in the kitchen take measure by heart
I slip


Myself from underneath the red bit of moon
Full of sea salt & hinder


I cannot say what it really means
I am falling


Into my eggs at breakfast hands
Curved and lifting


Alarums of likeness
Howsoever much Mother might imagine she has made me


Camouflage,
I arrive now in her body


And shut
Doors I no longer remember