When the hours of morning stop and dawn forces
its greyness, the dead will come to your bedsides
as strangers, carrying their mirrors like lanterns.
They will gatecrash the skulls of the heaviest
sleepers, leave them with nothing, want nothing,
not even regret. Hear this! I am the last guest
to leave, the last chief of the gooney birds, mindful
of my responsibilities, mind full of excuses. Listen