Death and I Do Not Care

The residue of angels drapes

like fine linen

over our hands

our language

our thighs.

Death and I do not care what time it is.

He is a delinquent

I am night’s dilettante.

A lighthouse is afraid.

The gray sea is a dancer and a whore.

Stop feeding the birds along

the craggy shore your dinner.

They are waiting for you.