well, lately, i am the grim reaper.

death trails in my wake — flies lie

belly up on my windowsill, side by

side as if they were star-cross’d

lovers, drunk on abjection, on lye.

melons lose a lifetime overnight,

growing marrow soft w/ the inching

light of day, sweeter than smog.

even succulents give in, preferring

the company of dirt. forgive me.

i said lately, but i meant earlier too.

the years read as obituaries do —

circling back forever in our hearts

to a terminal beginning. they say,

living makes light work of you and

i say, amen, all hail the grim reaper.