Death is there
She said "The world's gonna die."
"You know, the world, the earth."
"Its gonna be over"
And he said "well I never lied to you"
You see I could explain sex in a minute
But death, I can't explain

Wanting to die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage
Then the almost unnameable lust returns
Even then I have nothing against life
I know well the grass blades you mention
The furniture you have placed under the sun
But suicides have a special language, like carpenters
They want to know "Which tools?", they never ask "Why build?"

Twice I have so simply declared myself
Have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy
Have taken on his craft, his magic
In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water
I have rested drooling at the mouth-hole
I did not think of my body at needle point
Even the cornea and the left over urine were gone
Suicides have already betrayed the body
Still-born, they don't always die
But dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile
To thrust all that life under your tongue
That, all by itself, becomes a passion
Death's a sad bone; bruised, you'd say
And yet she waits for me, year after year
To so delicately undo an old wound
To empty my breath from its bad prison
Balanced there
Suicides sometimes meet
Raging at the fruit, a pumped up moon
Leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss
Leaving the page of the book carelessly open
Something unsaid, the phone off the hook
And the love, whatever it was, an infection