The Intimacy of Death 

Do not fear me.
And do not fear you.
But do not be afraid to fear the
intimacy of death.

For there is something delicious roasting on the fire.
There is a morsel of something
Left for you by the fisherman
Long gone to bed

And the clock has struck some ungodly
And you wait for someone to prepare it
To set it down
In front of you;
And no one comes
And the hard wood of the thick table
Is cooling with the tiring hours of a new day
And the candle has been snuffed
And you are starved from patience
And something is burning

And he knocks on your door
Quiet and timid
And you answer
You hear in his voice:
The creaking of a brass door knob
The gentle whisper of falling leaves
He touches your arm and you
Become somehow a separate part of
What you knew.
The Shack fades
You are now encompassed in a pillar made of your own body
And you cry
And you laugh
And you wait.


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