outside, the world
half-blind, half-illuminated
       i solder mine tremulous fingers
   to unsullied white and begin
      to pry the promised mirth;

joyously i and the smoke
   of fetal curve, rising like a hand
glistening my forehead!
   death strides past the juxtaposition
of scaffolds and i heed the call
   of the clarion void. the shadow's
pantomime comes to a close
   and the iron sea of curtains
move altogether.

  oh my mother weeps
  and so my father, the nonchalant
    always, my brother
and sister learning the form of
     early departures,

a long lineage of passing,
mustering the immense weight
of dying. we seek death not—
   living flourishes for naught.

never always the princely thing
  to do, but when i have death
   in between the fingers, berating
my smallness,

    it is either obliteration
or salvation, eluding inhibition.