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{the absence of psychosis} benjamin nardolilli I do not fear neighborly death, Death that comes and sits besides me, Take sup a house and cultivates A garden, waiting for me To become pierced and tangled In the machinery of everyday life, Nor death that hides under the earth And wears a blanket, awakened Only by hubris or ignorance, Or even the unlucky toss Of God’s crooked dice, I only look at for the death I can wear, Death that comes playfully to me And dangles from my fingertips, That lets me think I am the puppeteer and When his cold plow falls for the harvest, It is only a game, the blood drawn Is only syrup and dye, no spirit is lost, I fear death as a fitting And gentle as a glove, At rest with the world, no struggle, The end coming to me through my own hand, Yet leaving no fingerprints on the gun. |
