“Death be not proud, though some have called thee  
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,  
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,  
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”
—
John Donne

 

i.
You’ve been told to lie down,
hang that dog-head of yours,
but every time we turn around
you sink your nasty fangs into more tender flesh.

 

ii.
random reaper
taking what someone else has sown

 

iii.
threadbare and thin
(almost transparent)
like a pot of soup
with more
and more water
added every day

 

iv.
a slow turning
from one form
to another —

atoms changing dance partners

 

v.
a door
no one wants to knock on,
no one wants to go through

 

vi.
does the bell
yet toll for you,
oesophageal rattlesnake?

 

vii.
Like a proper sentence,
we will begin with a capital
and fix a steady period
to the end.

 

viii.
a dark passage into the unknown

 

ix.
a bridge
over an anxious river

 

x.
finally
arriving
home

 

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Björn is hosting the bar at dVerse and the challenge is to write a cubist poem.