Looks Like You Won’t Die Any Other Way

Alone in the shadowy room,
Hot sun on the desert outside,

You picked at an old piece of tape
On your arm and contemplated

Whether you were or weren’t learning
Something that amounted to fate.

Dying’s an old fashioned darkroom,
Like the one you used in high school,

Where you bathe the film of frames past,
And develop your negatives,

And scrutinize the contact sheets.
You’ve got nothing but what’s on them.

The end result’s not determined,
But the selection’s limited,

So limited it feels fated
How death is going to look for you.

You flicked the tape in the trash can,
Squinting out the window at the heat.