I drape myself in lace,
pretty trappings of the widow,
that hides a tangled mass
of arteries and veins — a mess of pain.

My face, a mask of skin:
peel it back to find the frame of bone,
deep holes that hold my eyes,
Marvellous Wondergraphs of the soul.

The craze of age, a trail across
the brow’s terrain, it’s plain
what I try to stem in vain
will get me in the end:

the wrinkle in the plan,
a tinny little laugh that lodges
in the gullet, the lop of blood
stopped in its tracks,

the cack hand of death,
clammy, yes, like in the movie,
moving swiftly through me,
capillaries of black.