It's painful to die,
And I should know
Because I've died
Nine or ten times.

You should learn
Death's face:
Long, sharp
And angular,
Like a hook's bait
For the goldfish,
That same sawed,
Curving nose.

Gutted and skinning,
Cooking flesh,
But death's not all
Grim eyes
And frowns
Like an eclipsed
Shadow.

There are
Fields of rosy
Dew, the due
Of honeyed
Streams -- black
To be sure
As cocoa is
A sweetness in death
Of sleep,
Tired eyes,
Heavy limbs,
Nostalgia;
Of becoming,
Of giving up.

Each death
Is a passage
Through tunnels
Hanging heavy with lichens
Into new
Cerebral labyrinths;
Each craft
The construction
Of ages,
Purple patterings,
Of the fool's
Horrified
Grin.

To men I say
Don't fear death,
For we are dying
All the time,
In every place
By the seeping
Detergent of laundries,
By the churning
Dryers of streams,
Over coffee,
Disappointments
To a friendly gaze;

Don't fear death,
Because limbs
Drop off, faces
Wrinkle, books
Decay, and flesh
Becomes ugly,
Intelligence
Rots.

Where is this all going?
The passage of time
Is as inevitable as
(And perhaps
Prefigured in)
The tides.