Colors of Death
There are lonely cemeteries
tombs full of bones with no sound
the heart passing through the tunnel
blackness blackness blackness
as in a shipwreck we die inward
as if drowning in our hearts
as if falling from our skin to our soul
there are cadavers
there are the feet of the cold clammy slabs
there is death in the bones
like pure sound
like a bark with no dog
emerging from certain bells
from certain tombs
increasing in humidity
like the weeping of rain
i see, alone all the time
coffins under sail
weighing anchors with baited breath
with women in dead photos
with sheets of white like angels
with pensive girls married to skeletons
coffins floating the vertical river beds
the dead dry river
upwards, sails swollen by the sound of death
filled with the silent sound of death
to what is loud and clear, death comes
like a shoe with no foot
like a suit with no man
comes knocking with a ring with no stone or finger
comes screaming with no mouth, no tounge, no throat
yet its steps .... ring
and its clothes rustle silent like a ghost
i dont know, i perceive little, i hardly see
but i think it is the color of violets
violets that are familiar with the earth
for the face of death is green
and the gaze of death is greener
with the flowing damp of a violet leaf
it is the solemn color of exasperated winter
But death also moves through the world dressed as a broom
licking the floor looking for souls
death is in the broom
is the tongue of death looking for the dead
the needle of death looking for thread
death is in beds
on sluggish slow motion mattresses, in black blankets
it lives stretched out and suddenly blows
blows a dark sound that swells the sheets
and then there are the beds
sailing to port
with the coffins on that river
in those shipwrecks, as we die inward.
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