Nerwanda

There in your vast night sky of hair,
where starfire strafes your dark earth face,
I long to probe my milky fingers where
the smear of yellow neon leaves no trace.

Death, though Death Be Proud, revolved behind
your hidden hemisphere of purple shirt
like a meek forgotten moon whose face inclines
into the whirling pleats of Gaia's skirt,

for you are young as nights are young
before the first ungentle words are said,
before the stars' full harmony is sung,
before the smothering dark has fully spread.

And as hurriedly as Death made his escape,
I rush to your register, clutching my tape.

Author's Note: Death Be Proud is a French film (Le Morte Retorte) starring Auguste Homme as an undertaker who engages in staring contests with all his "clients." Too slow-moving for commercial audiences, it remains to this day an art-house favorite. I found it quite disturbing, but was distracted by odd pounding noises being made by my upstairs neighbors. I kept thinking that someone was banging on the coffin, and wondering why someone would do that, if they expect a response and if they know something I don't. I had trouble finishing my popcorn.

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