We catch a glimpse of our death in the face of a stranger,
down an occult street.
Along an alien alley once,
I heard a child at a window whisper my name without opening his mouth.
A gathering under the window seemed to recognize me
and came at me with open arms.
One of them, a woman in a guard uniform,
clasped my shoulders hard, as if to detain me, then laughed.
She leaned toward a gaunt, faintly familiar man and stroked him,
grinning, watching for my reaction.
Following her inside, I found the child standing beside an urn.
All the others had withered into husks.
“Tell me what it says,” whispered the child, pointing to the urn’s inscription,
but I refused to look.
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