DEATH, the friend behind phenomenon,
Coughs up his flowers in a gay pastiche,
Distributes favors to the party guests
And makes an all-inclusive speech.
He is that skier whom the winter snow
Bleeds for; his eminence of height
Is heaven-wise, tricking his foe
Before the owls and the night…
His cinkle hides behind the bark of trees
When the lottery of leaves is ill-begun;
He sighs the dangerous whisper at the frieze
Of fountains tipping in the summer sun.
Death is that slipshod saviour early come
To dereliction and the drowned dream;
And you will bow beneath his skillful thumb,
The legendary victim of his fame.
He claws to heaven with a corkscrew sound,
A hawk-foot-screamer swooping for the dead;
Death is your lover and your body bends
To meet his dark, possessive head.
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