Death is emptying us out with the flat teaspoon
of minutes, bit by bit, without being excessively
voracious. Sometimes it opens the fridge and contemplates us
in the chilled, bluish light, like someone who gets up
at midnight, half-wanting something, without really knowing what.
In the street, someone is lowering the restaurant blinds
with a useless gesture. Seated between empty tables and chairs,
death reviews the menu for the umpteenth time,
repeats our names between its teeth,
unraveling them, as if scouring for
morsels of meat hidden in the cartilage
of this bird without lessening who we are.
Every morning we pack our bags and take flight
with the first swallows,
but the mouth that devours us
ends up being larger
than the parabola
of our flight.