Death

How many doors will this man open

And stand with his skull against the light

And move his reddened eyes like hyphens

On the right parchment of his face,

Insert his stick and grasp the post

And lift his legs over the threshold

And let his free hand, white as chalk,

As cold as sculpture, hang like cheese?

The number of his entrances

Is known: the door will shortly open

And he will not be there, the light

Will shine into the room and back

Along the straight corridor upon

Himself advancing with some hope

Toward the gateposts and the void

(Between them) of his older shape.