The palm reader says Death
will take your life before you can.
The city’s lost pets
are found in suburban kill shelters, worms
shedding eggs in the nests of their rectums,
fleas making fire of fur—
After cremations, the staff smokes
against dumpsters, passing a joint
between old developments
and new. But this is their crime, not yours:
You are both vector and virus,
supporting a life that consumes you.
The post-furious boom in your brain
is not the high that you paid for, not the fossilizing
turbulence before a crash landing,
nor the seismic preface to a chemical explosion,
not Death calling your name, but clearing his throat.