Death is soup spilled all over,
coloring the floor, the walls,
walking down your leg
zipping down your fly.
It leads you into the room
and asks, What is darkness,
expects you to respond with a question.
It leads you into the room
and pulls out the yearbook, points
at the autographs, the
wish-you-wells, at
every picture and laughs:
soup through bones.
It leaves like a leaking faucet.
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