This is what our dying looks like.
You believe in the sun. I believe
I canít love you. Always be closing,
Said our favorite professor before
He let the gun go off in his mouth.
I turned 29 the way any man turns
In his sleep, unaware of the earth
Moving beneath him, its plates in
Their places, a dated disagreement.
Letís fight it out, baby. You have
Only so long leftóa man turning
In his sleepóso I take a picture.
I wonít look at it, of course. Itís
His bad side, his Mr. Hyde, the hole
In a husbandís head, the O
Of his wifeís mouth. Every night,
I take a pill. Miss one, and Iím gone.
Miss two, and weíre through. Hotels
Bore me, unless I get a mountain view,
A room in which my cell wonít work,
And thereís nothing to do but see
The sun go down into the ground
That cradles us as any coffin can.