For E.A. Poe on the occasion of his birthday

Death comes quickly, leaves you on your back,
whether by seizure, aneurism, heart attack.
Death warms over like a father’s cold hands,
a long walk in the woods til you’ve made amends.

Death steals what only thieves understand,
takes that life and all contraband
and in the lonely quiet of a clearing,
judges, first by sight, then by hearing.

Death has shallow migratory patterns
causes migranes with twists and turns
down narrow alleys and busy streets
strikes up a match with everyone.

Death breaks a rhyme, puts time on hold,
grinds the sinews and ends the old,
loosens up a tight poet’s verse,
takes back every moment in the universe.