Drilling With a Scythe

These eyes are young and then they're old.

Open as the sky and ready as the windowsill to close.

Death is the final frontier.
The curious smell of clover growing in the rot.

If you saw space swallow the sky whole
and leave us nylon darkness to sleep in,
would you have left to the South for the winter?
Strange bird.

Not knowing that I couldn't sleep this time
while you retreated to the Latin light like you always do.

Sleeping in a bed or a coffin.
What difference does it make in the darkness?

No one around to wake me up.
And when they do, some day hammers into the contracting pupils.

What an aching head.

As long as you don't taste what happens in the North
when you refrain from anything but what can't curb the flow of unstagnating blood.