Every morning now—kingly skeleton mouths
grin out from camouflaged
graveyards—and pluck, as if from
these hot capillaries passing by, oddly
exuberant dissonant chords;
raising and reanimating giddy phantoms
inside me, of spooky gossamer agents
I can never put my finger on—
some terrible, witlessly merry pulse
and its catchy unutterable melody line.
I only know it's something
along the lines of—how death must start
as a ponderous mountain of potential pleasure
whose sheer gravity causes it
to implode
the longer and harder we try to conserve it.
Maybe that's why—what I've been
hankering for all these mornings
has been the taste of
hunger itself. And maybe that's why
I've never been able
to bring myself to sit and watch
the sand in my hourglass
gracefully run out,
without growing so sick
and tired of waiting—that I
positively have to—get up
and go running.
