An ocean without its unnamed monsters would be like a completely dreamless sleep.
-John Steinbeck
Lately I've dreamt so much of death
that death surely also dreams of me.
I die in such novel ways, that only
a brain glutted with sticky sleep
could devise: my teeth have the word
"OBITUARY" scrimshawed across them
as I dig myself a grave - my shovel
strikes colossal grandfather clocks
instead of rock and webbed root
in the wet black loam. The worst
feature my father, who vanishes
suddenly mid-sentence, leaving
behind a silence like old books
forgotten and dampstained
on yard sale tables, patiently
waiting for eyes or for fire.
Death: come, play chess with me,
as is your wont; wear Old Shuck
& twin me down the night streets -
anything but this, when I dread
the failure of evening coffee,
& slide unwilling into cold sheets.