some day the reaper
will shave yr skin
from yr bones
& trap the powder
all w/ in
a new addition
to its snow globe
collection
& 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