Sometimes I die,
I drop to a
heap and I am at my feet and I have feet again and I walk on,
Like the
world moves on from my death-lump; I walk on,
My death-light
sends the shadows to my fore,
All in
front of me
In shadow
Sometimes I
die and I bring someone with me,
Someone I
need to die properly, maybe heroically,
Beautiful
women, poets, an enemy, someone to juxtapose,
My gravestone
disguised as door, I’ll beckon them toward and tell them
‘I don’t
think that we can go on anymore’,
And then
down with the door, the hammer’s ‘no-more’,
The bottom
floor,
The perfect
murder
Sometimes I
die after dieing,
A double-take
thing where I jerk like a spring,
And I’m
born
Sometimes I
die without knowing,
I’ll look
for my love or my song and I’ll find that it’s gone,
Replaced by
a flower or something that dies, too, in times eyes
Adieu
Sometimes I
find myself rotting somewhere,
Somewhere I
haven’t been in a long time,
The end of
the garden; the sweet shelf in Garvin’s,
I’ll see
some old rag that I used as a flag,
My half-fleshed
finger pointing in some old, extinct direction
From the
moist and mildewed sleeve,
Or I’d hear
the song of flies my body fed,
Get nostalgic
and then miss myself
A great
deal
Sometimes I
save myself from dieing,
I see my
eyes roll and the grasp of gravity vacuum me
From the
arms of a good girl or from the hook of a God’s rod,
And I’ll
give me what I need;
More time
Life goes
on; perpetual periphery,
I stay
still and leave the changes to the scenery,
The window
of the train,
I’m forever
on the train, crying, dying not to die until it stops
At some
specific destination far from death
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