The Pilgrimage, Book II: Part 27 / Phillip Neal Tippin
I have been fed a body
To take as a lie or mine.
As our youngevity increases
So the slope of our decline.
Upon the water, heralded,
Where does all the death go so fast,
The mountains of dead voles and men
Hurrying to hide themselves from view,
Unobtrusive, polite, to the last?
Even as I open the door,
I should feel the door knob.