The day is nearly gone, an orange bead in the gunsight of evening. When a key turns, you hear the kingdom open. Just a little food to tide me over. Bread is a comfort. The butter tastes sweet.
Death is a white cotton shirt, draw string, slippers.
That corridor ahead is tiled with footsteps of the vanished, each thought a twelve inch square. Death is a stainless table, a clean sheet folded down sharp as a military bunk. But your eyes are in the treetops now. The Lord blinks in the Texas sun, a smoke on the tailgate, his pickup by the side door idling. Night is a man in black leather shoes.