Death has an iPod.
Sits in a dark compartment
for smokers. And the whole train’s lit up, full
of sweaty people sweating beer.
Death has a woman’s intuition. Eyes
staring into my eyes blindly. Our eyes
meet in the glass pane. All the lights faint
outside the window. Small towns like small cemeteries.
Big towns like fire. Here the route ends.
To go in order to live. Pretend a particle of community.
Do. The very first to die will be the tongue. Not