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1<!DOCTYPE html>
2<!-- Template for compiled 'Autocento' documents -->
3<html>
4<head>
5 <meta charset="utf-8">
6 <meta name="generator" content="pandoc">
7 <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0, user-scalable=yes">
8 <meta name="author" content="Case Duckworth">
9 <!-- more meta tags here -->
10 <title>Death’s trumpet | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
11 <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="_common.css">
12 <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="_verse.css">
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17 </head>
18<body>
19
20
21 <header>
22 <!-- title -->
23 <h1 class="title">Death’s trumpet</h1>
24
25 <!-- epigraph -->
26 <p class="epigraph">
27 <p>So Death plays his little <a href="apollo11.html">fucking</a> trumpet. So what, says the boy.</p>
28 </p>
29 <p class="epigraph-attrib">
30 &mdash; Larry Levis
31 </p>
32 </header>
33
34 <section class="verse">
35 <p>He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,<br />top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine<br />begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.</p>
36 <p>He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining<br />it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized<br />it was a terrible metaphor.<br />He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?</p>
37 <p>Death looks at <a href="moongone.html">himself in the mirror</a> as he plays.<br />The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.<br />Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving<br />but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.<br />Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.</p>
38 <p>He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.<br />He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy<br />since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.<br />The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.<br />He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,</p>
39 <p>there’s only a <a href="angeltoabraham.html">little boy</a> with dead eyes. So far so good.<br />He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him<br />and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.<br />Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.</p>
40 </section>
41
42 <nav>
43 </nav>
44
45</body>
46</html>