Death brushes by me again,
in the shape of a wounded wing
attached to this woman thing.
Small, insignificant and difficult,
taking all my time and my eyes,
this repeat death is slow and nearly
unnoticeable. Scalpel sharp enough
to cut humans and kittens in half
with minimal effort and near-to-no
stirring of agitated bodies.
Residue is painful though,
bleeding and abandoned
litter of the future,
delayed once more.
Look at the trains leaving,
look at them go.
Look at the unsaid
hovering above the sleepers.
Just say no, wait for the next
galaxy to be born,
to breathe in and out. Wait
for the next slow death.
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