The Other Edge

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There's a cold thing that hangs at the edge of a first step out from a great sleep where you died.   It's not a bath of water to cleanse the viscera. It's not your mother's dead hands. It's surely not winter, for you already know its ba...

There's a cold thing that hangs

at the edge of a first step out

from a great sleep where you died.

 

It's not a bath of water to cleanse

the viscera.

It's not your mother's dead hands.

It's surely not winter, for you already know

its barren demands.

It's not a creature of hell, for it

is not you. (Pinch your

waxy arm.)

 

It is your eyes that will not open, blinded

by neon phantoms.

It is your voice that cannot rise

from your throat.

It is your lack of movement, the

stillness of the tides.

It is the snapping together of inanimate

parts, once of life inanimate parts.

 

If it is waking, then what is alive, and

where do the plastic undead rest.

 

And will you rest indeed, with this

cold, nameless thing hanging at

the edge of your death.

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