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1 | --- | ||
2 | title: "Death's trumpet" | ||
3 | genre: verse | ||
4 | |||
5 | project: | ||
6 | title: Elegies for alternate selves | ||
7 | css: elegies | ||
8 | order: 28 | ||
9 | prev: | ||
10 | title: 'To Daniel: an elaboration' | ||
11 | link: todaniel | ||
12 | |||
13 | epigraph: | ||
14 | content: | | ||
15 | So Death plays his little [fucking](apollo11.html) trumpet. | ||
16 | So what, says the boy. | ||
17 | attrib: Larry Levis | ||
18 | ... | ||
19 | |||
20 | He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \ | ||
21 | top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \ | ||
22 | begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese. | ||
23 | |||
24 | He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \ | ||
25 | it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized \ | ||
26 | it was a terrible metaphor. \ | ||
27 | He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do? | ||
28 | |||
29 | Death looks at [himself in the mirror][moongone] as he plays. \ | ||
30 | The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules. \ | ||
31 | Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \ | ||
32 | but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough. \ | ||
33 | Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone. | ||
34 | |||
35 | He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later. \ | ||
36 | He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy \ | ||
37 | since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two. \ | ||
38 | The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke. \ | ||
39 | He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there, | ||
40 | |||
41 | there's only a [little boy][] with dead eyes. So far so good. \ | ||
42 | He's playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him \ | ||
43 | and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid's good. \ | ||
44 | Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand. | ||
45 | |||
46 | [moongone]: moongone.html | ||
47 | [little boy]: angeltoabraham.html | ||