Solemn death it was not you, iron-plumed bird,
that the poor successor to those dwellings
carried among gulps of food, under his empty skin:
something it was, a spent petal of worn-out tope,
a shred of heart that fell short of struggle
or the harsh dew that never reached his face.
It was what could not be reborn, a bit
of petty death with no peace or place:
a bone, a bell, that were dying within him.
I lifted the iodine bandages, plunged my hands
into meager griefs that were killing off death,
and all I found in the wound was a cold gust
that passed through loose gaps in the soul.
