Untitled 28

From "Young": collected poems from 2010-2011

And almost immediately, the haunt of death comes back to you. Not some cartoon of it, robed in black with skeleton hands and a rasping voice. The real death, played like a single note on a million different instruments at once, crashing into you quietly at first, though the roar becomes deafening moments later. An ocean polluted to a chemical black and ugly browns we are as drawn to as we are to the lighter things of this world.