Dying alone
In a mothballs-and-spiderweb bed
With only the shafts of sunlight –
Those that struggle through
Grime-sealed windows –
To hold my hand
The flickering dust motes in the air
Are the ones to stroke my face
And it is the scuttling of spiders
In hidden woven realms
With the buzzing of flies
And the clanging of the long-broken furnace
That whisper reassurances
In murmuring stream tones
And harmonize with the clinking
Of beer bottles festooning the clothesline
Dusty and already seeming empty, hollow
Those to see me off
The green turtle lamp
Paper cast cracked with time
Laying open the tender meats within
And the velveteen bear
With the falling-out eye
And patchy fur
And the dusty feather
From better days
Fluttering with my breaths
Up, down, twitch
Until it lies still
The silence of death
Is beautiful
And the clock tolls
Twelve