on death.

I sew myself to your shadow
But cruel;
Ripped and scratched, he
Drags fingernails down our backs,
Draws blood .
You expected it.

The door opens and
His stained hand – dull - creeps through; but
We did not see it. We heard only
The morning bell ring
To tell us of tomorrow, ignoring
What we knew.

I always thought of death as
A boundary, a line drawn in the crisp sand
Of a beach wiped clean of footprints by the tide.


At that kind of height, everything is visible.