Death is my own covetous possession,
A hand-me-down with the worn edges
Of a closed, burnished keepsake box.
Death is the memory of a tree-lined walk,
A daguerreotype, a trompe-l'oiel des bois,
Sight itself turned within, but without end,
A forest of unstirring eyelashes, like long uncut grass,
Death is the stillness of pewter leaves,
And sorrow is sadness in love with itself.