Cold earth unquiet hard. A tangled sheet
round dried white limbs that do not cramp or ache.
Death's a discomfort that can never wake
though skull stretch yawn. Plague death stalks empty street
And we rise not to dance his slow drum beat
nor any bell that tolls. The guns of war
may blow our house down, cannot hurt us more.
Worms tunnel us. Brave rats will gnaw our feet.
Grave stoic flesh we cannot mortify
chaste as a nun whether we lie alone
or share our bed with lover bone to bone.
Our grin's no laugh. Our sorry sockets dry.
Our corpses virtuous by sad default,
death's imminence live pleasure's sweet spice salt.