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 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

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