We are stardust—that meanswe carry death in our bones. Our breathblows out a galaxy long gone.
Hugging a friend and her seaweed hair,kissing a stranger with hesitant beard,feeling the first girl her soft skin melting on yours—that was death too.
Death made quite an entrance—a drunk steppingdown the staircase, a body thumped, thawed, dissolvedinto the ground.It arrived quiet too, tiptoed—a giant hand flipping a calendaronto the next page, adding numbers, wiping a windowpane cleanwith ivory sleeves, shifting a foot ever so slightlyto hide the dirt.
Look the man on that high stage his huge body blockingthe sun. Hush he has yet to knowa clock is dragging his neck low.We take him too. As he breaks downinto rotten bats and cooked porcupine,we free ourselves from the end.Stars reunion and the man under that bridgereconsidered taking the leap again.Each lost soul finds its body backinfest another organ white.We gather to watcha wild boar running across the Yangtze riverin a hollow January night.
***
Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay