The sky is swollen, in the color of graves,
timber wolf gown shook in the light. I bank against
the thunderous haze, and Death’s coughing
call, asking me to board his boat this morning.
Shall I go off then? Visit the ashen shores, keep
breath far, surrender hours of life to linger in
the ghostly arms of unspoken things, gingerly
take the bony cup of grief, drink the sands;
nay, I think not, I think Death should find another.
I think the casket has grown too comfortable
here in my living room, I think loss has overstayed
its welcome, I think I want my roses uncut.
To hell with this morning’s grey; away with it.
Can I ask for a spread of butter across the mountains,
the air to spill a little blood, the rain to throw itself
so hard it cracks my windows and tosses me?
Holy Mary, I want that. A slingshot out of here,
back twisting, a weeping willow swinging in
the gales and gusts. A rocket to a moony satellite
farthest from the sun, leave Death, to the dust.