only a fool
would believe
the man preaching
from the pulpit
in a collar much
too high and stiff.

the words that
"death is like sleep."
what a lie to tell
oneself in such times...

sleep-
so fleeting, so restful, so warm.
death-
so permanent, so final, so cold.

death is not sleep.
no, of this i am sure.

i couldn't wake you.

you were not asleep
in that hard wooden box
that my shivering
knobby, young knees
knelt before so
long ago.

nor was he simply
resting in the room
with the french doors
closed that i did not
enter, where his
mustache lay
mistakenly shaven
on a frigid face

death is no sleep,
there is no
waking from
a dream.