Death is My Name

Death is what my hands are searching in my pockets.
Death is a floating object
in the drowning world.

Death is what makes me alive,
-for nothing insinuates death,
more than a deathless life,-
death is what that chews me as an apple in every Joy
burning my wings with every flame of passion, with my truth,
the truth of what we search in one hand
and in the other
trying so hard to conceal in order to survive,

death is to cool our blaze down,
to poise our temperature in, temperance.

Death is the jasmines of your teeth
when you smile
that remind s me of the fading world
when whites wither.

Death is
a hint at something more tenantable in time, than time.

Death is my name in everything
that my survival, my mouth, ingurgitates,
and my jaws interlace
to chew and to enjoy
and to be chewed by the joys.

Death is the pearl shells that in them I veil
the hurt of existence with art;
the little dirt that awakens me
from the restful dreams,
with the chisel of ache in my hand
engraving and searching in coarseness
for a vague reminiscence of my entombed soul.

Death is searching for life
and life,
discerning itself!