death, like life, has a

death, like life, has a
way of lining up
two pairs of unused
glasses, a stack of
unread mail, a pair
of slippers here, a
pair of shoes there,
emptied shoulders
touching, one
after another in
the closet, a school
of fish laid out
lovingly, in the neatest
fashion on the
entire block


  1. marlowe44

    Numbers plague us, duplicity,/two pairs of used/glasses, and /a pair of slippers/ and /a pair of shoes/ and indescript clothes/emptied shoulders/touching/; things in rows, worship the linear for it is fleeting and illusionary. Life, and our reasons for living it, is a kalidescope,
    a series of captured rainbows kenneled in brass pots. And of course /death/ remains constant, that transition, that destination that changes up for each of us, can appear from the mists, or the glare of the brightest afternoon–death lies with the fish on the ice, with the steaks stacked up neatly in pinkish piles, with the flowers cut and ready to wither, with the shined and injected fruit lining the bins of our supermarkets waiting to be kissed before they rot. And within, harbored like a carcinogen, a beast at bay, tethered but not broken.

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