It’s cliche to say, hey,

every breath might suddenly be your last—
how can you possibly live like that,
the juggernaut Death or Teth or Time
contusing your neck with a sharpened scythe
and butting your undulous head, now a mess
of mere echoes confessing to anything really,
to nuzzle a snuffling nose amongst fragrant jonquils, and
chortling, mind the bees now!
 
Although, it’s kind of like that anyway, isn’t it?
Just be wryly quiet for even a second
and feel that chilling crick, that
dulcet pulse that ushers you everywhere,
Teth no more than a clown with a wishbone
dowser’s wand that follows your beetling tears
to the chilling Pacific,
disrupted in nacreous flame,
a choir of misty-eyed jellyfish
jammed in the bonewan sand and
treacly reflecting the sunset.