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Vintage Words


Poems have feet and are good dancers.

Watching them, I wonder, have I learned

their flair, their spin.  Death is laughing.

Death is a laugher.


Everything said, Death is a handsome devil.

His feet are sure, his emblem, skull and crossed

semi-automatic weapons; the epitome of cool

as bodies dismember or decompose slowly stealing



Life is lighter in costume. Her spurs whirl

in the breeze of her passing. Willows sway

as she turns the corner. Poets write long

poems to her. Death too, but not with half

the enthusiasm.








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