Death held an ashplant
in place of his scythe,
today. And he hit
me on the shoulder,
rapped my collarbone                  
until it ached,                              
and cried, "Costa Rica                
is for sand crabs!"                        
                                          this chronic leaning
                                          and tendon-bending
                                          makes me feel like my once-ripe
                                          muscles are browning, rusting

           Like discarded apple slices
           beside a hair-strewn caramel
           quagmire of copulating flies,
           my dreams just seem
           unappetizing.

Death then jabbed my sternum
with the cane's sod-strewn
hoof, and reminded
me of the breathlessness
I had hoped of feeling
atop the Urals.