On Death

graves move past stormy windows, past tired eyes

each life once a pasture, a stolen harvest

the inner flame absconds skyward

guided ever further from reason

by the blisters of each hand digging out in the storm

extant bodies huddled in awe by the oak, shivering

reaching back for what little sun would return by night

and they depart

the journey ends when the moon shuts out

when it is booming with blackness

moments before we are ghosts

and we, astonished by the persistence of voice

hear death herself, all smoke and impermanence

standing in the doorway to the high rooms

bitter, empty, pungent and cool

and what is left to ask but

of what comes next