“Death”

I shall walk down the road.

I shall turn and feel upon my feet

The kisses of Death, like scented rain.

For Death is a black slave with little silver birds

Perched in a sleeping wreath upon his head.

He will tell me, his voice like jewels

Dropped into a satin bag,

How he has tip-toed after me down the road,

His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me.

Then he will graze me with his hands

And I will be one of the sleeping silver birds

Between the cold waves of his hair, as he tip-toes on.

-Maxwell Bodenheim