Death, my friend, is in everything
we touch
the small porcelain cup
which holds my coffee
the tiny silver spoon that
stirs my mind

our breaths are numbered
assigned at birth
watching your chest rise and fall
as you sleep
I count
trying to formulate between us
the perfect equation

my deep and dire dreams
redeem me
no lunar memory remains
I'm transformed with no recollection
precious state
dissolving ribbon
a fresh organism
cells renewed
a sloughing off of the night
a hatching
perhaps, after all, there is a soul