grim’s globes

some day the reaper
will shave yr skin
from yr bones
& trap the powder
all w/ in
a new addition
to its snow globe
& when death
becomes bored
some days
he’ll choose
a globe from
the dark ancient shelf
& shake it up
until flecks of you
swirl & float down
under the glass dome
a fine dusting upon
a miniature graveyard
the first skin-fall
of the season
& you’ll amuse death
for a little while

Rob Plath, contrary to popular belief, is not yet under the jurisdiction of the worms. His latest book of poems Batter the Keyboard Like a Raptor Is Behind Yr Back is available from Laughing Ronin Press. See more of his work at: Read other articles by Rob.