When your corpse was clean
And good to go, then
They came and got you
And flew you on home,
Not just one of them,
Not just Sleep or Death,
But both, pas-de-deux,
The rest and the null,
Your ride come for you.
Think on this. Who first
Thought of the slain flesh—
Killed, stripped, claimed, and washed
Fresh as a dish, wiped
Clear—as still in need
Of more aid from Death,
Not to say mere Sleep?
Such a thought’s a wish
To be out of this,
To pull the corpse free
Of the next and next
Lives that will rise, feast
And die from that flesh.
Gods, if Sleep and Death
Could free flesh from next!
