Oblivion

Death was in the thing, moving;

a whirlpool unfurling. I studied its

paw, a claw of rigor animated

by an army of blind things...

When the mud puddled,

settled to a dumb function,

the blind things huddled,

hundreds alone, befuddled.

It lay stiff riddled with a

look of alarm; stunned by the

moment of death it arrested,

numbness crumbling a lifetime.

Pumped dumb with a whiteness,

bleached, I thumbed the thing.

Its body was cold, death had it.

Only the rumbling of grubs

         made it sing. Sing.