i once was a young man w/death coolly dangling
from my mouth like a marlboro
now i am somewhere in the middle
& the thoughts of dying men
have permanently invaded my shape
like tar from one thousand cigars
& one day i will finally become what possessed
me my whole life through: an expired man
someone asked me the other day what poetry
was & i failed to answer them
but i will right now:
it's brailling
yr own urn
it's licking yr fingertips
& dipping them
inside & tasting
yr own ashes
it's the silt of
yr skeleton
on the tip
of yr tongue