When Death comes in—no thunder, only law—
he sets a skull where I have learned to sit,
turns up the sand, and with a careful claw
he lifts the candle’s flame and watches it.
The wax drops down in slow, obedient grief;
the sand runs on, untouched by any name.
No plea is heard, no bargain, no relief—
the room grows clear with one accounting flame.
I’d gladly slip this body off like cloth,
this suit of blame, this borrowed, breakable breath;
yet at the threshold something catches—rust:
a hinge that stutters at the edge of death.
A child laughs once—one bright, forbidden sound;
he writes it down, then wipes it into ground.
he sets a skull where I have learned to sit,
turns up the sand, and with a careful claw
he lifts the candle’s flame and watches it.
The wax drops down in slow, obedient grief;
the sand runs on, untouched by any name.
No plea is heard, no bargain, no relief—
the room grows clear with one accounting flame.
I’d gladly slip this body off like cloth,
this suit of blame, this borrowed, breakable breath;
yet at the threshold something catches—rust:
a hinge that stutters at the edge of death.
A child laughs once—one bright, forbidden sound;
he writes it down, then wipes it into ground.
