The ice cracks like a gunshot,
Cushioned in cartridge paper;
The forest fire crackles closer;
The encircling ring of rust,
Eating jagged gashes in the
Corrugated iron floor
That jangles with forced intimacy
High in the creaking scaffolding
Tightens.
Death haunted my dreams last night,
With me explaining, in bizarre locales,
To long dead parents, or former friends
Long since estranged,
How other people, also
Dead for ages,
Remain so.
And yet, still half the world imagines
This is just a step to everlasting life,
An invitation to unending bliss,
The prospectus for a time share
With eternity itself.
Though I continue thinking it could
Do with improving its old sales pitch.
Right now, Death’s still got a
Fucking funny way of asking.