Death Must Be Dying Too.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

because you are faraway
i resort to imagining you,

it must be bizarre looking
at a woman of stone with the head of
an egg
eyes made of wood
do not blink hands as cold as
tin can in frosty
winter
your color is darker than
violet
i try smelling
you like a ripe sour sop
there is this
prevailing smell of
Merthiolate
someone is bleeding right here
but no one is
asking for help

now you are so near and real
death is dying still