In May, the black bird on the beach mocks me
with the death that sits heavy on its bones.
Its beak is open, filled to the brim with the sea,
and I cannot meet its eye with its shining tones.
Now, if I filled myself with the sea it would spit
me out, disgusted that I would try death there,
when dust is meant to return to the land that it
came from. I just wanted to float a little, like air,
which lifted the black bird once, and so brought
it down when it couldn't support a deadweight.
Death knew it was time for me to go, I thought,
until I saw the black bird which death couldn't wait
upon. So even now as Death calls out for me, shaking
with desire, I know the waters are still unwelcoming.