“I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me.”
~ Mark Strand, “2002”
That a man can believe in the law but fear
the imminence signaled by the writing of a will,
the certainty of two coins dropping in place
to velvet the eyes— That the owl flying in
from the wood to lurk in the eaves is looking
for the vowels in your name. The door swings
close on its hinges when you leave so you’re not
tempted to return. Take the blackbirds with you,
take the chain-stitch of marks they make
on the sill. Let the spiders sew their gowns
undisturbed; let stars yet telegraph their long
extinguished flames as herringboned selvage.
In response to Via Negativa: New morning.