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. He is kind to you, you'll be human for some minutes yet. His smile's a passport on the night train, a cold water.