Some days drip slowly
Over the edges of the earth,
Leaving us like an itch in tired eyes
As you blink away what you have
In exchange for water and
On these days,
There's nothing you can do.
Everything has an echo, and everything
Rolls off you as waves.
Death seems quiet, until it's news
Strikes like a church bell
Knocked accidentally and off the hour.
Setting aside the simile
And the gore of the thing, death is quiet, I think.
A complete retreat into ourselves until we're so deep
We're out of ourselves and back
In the bellies of stars.
And it's indeed been a long day
When we resign ourselves to our fears.