Death with three left feet

What if there’s death inside me

and I am unaware of it

traveling at midday through scolding grains

to the house

where it is decided:

is it there

the infamous button

the golden finger

that kills?

                 to the kind eye

even the moth is golden

but not in the scary

way of noons

ii. forest with ill woman

Death is always inside us

ear to the otherworld

nose futureward which is north

like moss

waiting for the perfect collision

of ring and bone

                 barking at everything

so we don’t have to hear

the minutes—

not heartless, this inside hound

the only question is

who is the fox

iii. the leap

I open when it opens

and I peruse its wheels

lovely clock

that inside has an orchard

and horses that eat apples

and the farmer shoots the horses

and that’s how time passes