todd moore | fighting death for the poem

Every time I write something Death sits in the corner and watches. He is the consummate voyeur. Maybe he thinks he’s putting one over on me, but I know he’s there. He sits next to a cascade of empty boxes near my book filled closet. He would chew his nails if he could but in the absence of nails he chews the bone tips of his fingers. I can hear them click. He wants me to listen. This is Death’s music, his aria of stutter. Continue reading todd moore | fighting death for the poem