A gust vexes the curtain
and I am mindful of you.

That life, then, manifest, now,
In a halting procession
Of burnt celluloid.

Ash trays like pyres, leering gypsy eyes:
you mocked death, it mocked you.

And mocks you still,
perhaps for the last time, this blue midnight
as cherubs scrub the hospital floor.

Out you're ******,
like the curtain, like the gust.