Death likes to kneel, work
nearer the ground, likes to drop
and under both knees
all this sun waiting for the end
for its lips to cover my wall red
though the bed weighs almost nothing
the sheets pull
as snow will spread its sky closer
and I don't smoke --a match
would be enough, struck
near my throat as if I could capture
the sun's last breath --every evening now
Death strangling this floor
closing its knees underneath
never again running away
or after you --youre name so cold
--where were you! Even I
hear better on my knees
without a shadow to lift room to room.
Death needs to kneel.
A name is so heavy.
It can't be written, every page now
too weak. Even gravestones too --.
I know you're here.
Only you can say it
can bring me to my knees and lifetime.