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Death
had a farm in Africa,
Death was a master from Germany,
Death had passage to India,
and all the way up river where
his heart was almost bare amidst
piano keys of ivory;
Death is a man in America –
a little man.
Death
is at my door, and I am at his;
we knock and answer, knock and answer
Death
is a strange lover in another land
riding the disease he smokes into my skies
He woos me with songs and moving pictures
in which he saves the world appled in my eye
and strides through sunsets, he calls and I answer
Death
has a farm, death is a master,
all the way up river where
he has told the fishes from me.
He has girded stars to guard me.
He has set the sun against me.
Death,
that farming smiling master.
He stretches out his hand to mark my head
in which he keeps the world I’ve never seen,
spins me sugar from the skins of the others.
He needs my bones and teeth to grind his bread.
Death
is in my house, and I am in his;
answer and enter, enter and answer