I remember when I died,
but the two dimensional door
that presses your life away
also through its sorcery
thins your dying. I don’t know. What season
was it? There must have been people
troubling the street, trees making supplication
to clouds for rain. And the grand shout
of the sun, which you can depend on
every morning when you’re alive.
I don’t remember anything
but words, knife, but not its physical
being, only that it flags death’s
entry. Voice, spoken message with no substance,
not tenor, not baritone, not whisper or snarl.
The fear angel’s dead deadly voice empties you
from the clothed red universe, warm, busy,
belling with its shining satisfaction.
You must row the boat awash
with frozen sweat, back
through shaken silence. Believe
your earth will obey you again. Believe
your throat open again, to syllable, to sound.
That street accepts your walk’s casual telegraph.
Glass in your front door promises to armor you
like steel. And a shadow voice tells you again
the other door caves
between two ribs.