do the dead know a thing i know they do
they know how nice nothing feels in a pile
of earth beneath sleeping in pine or up in
the air ash mingling with pollen on a
svelte summer eve sick with young hearts
hungry to **** into each other sublime
homely darling eyes with no thoughts of
what might come after they lay up into
infinite dreamless eaves their sore mouths
(but the dead know they know how nice
nothing feels like a luckier to be alive feeling
they don't know a thing (but I know they do))