Death, Magicians
Can I start again? Something
about this unplugged lamp, its
distance from the outlet meaning
nothing. The light… when lights
are off all light must gather around
great bisections of earth (like where
your grandmother died) so it can
tumble in ropes to the bottom
I’m sorry
but what is new to say of death
but what is new to say of death
but that it’s new each time it happens?
I’m here
I arrived here in a jar this morning
to stare at the light, this light which
moves too quickly and shares my
reluctance to land on any faces. It’s
a terrible magician, this light now
flourishing over prop strings
of hospice furniture, these month old
birthday letters, a trick, it must be
to die in something so small as a body
unedit 
It is, indeed, new each time it happens.
If only more pleasant things were this way.
There is some breathtaking imagery in this piece. that put a finger on ther tie so the bow can be made.>KB
Thank you KB, always enjoy seeing your opinion.
Your poetry stirs ones mind to stretch beyond superficial fluff…..great poetry!
great compliment. Thank you!
I always hold my breath when I read your writing- so good.
Be careful if I post any long ones! Thanks a million, poet.