Today I’ve chosen to humidify my homage with stale dust. The results of my death are not in, yet I shall wait for that coffin in silence. I still have half an empty bottle of Nitrostat. Julia, my twin sister, writers die the same in an Earthenware bottle on a city street, or a Newport smoke museum inhabited by paper unicorns with gigolo faces. This is where this poem ends, but no! It’s like being on a pulpit spitting out some moral answer. Not every frog looks the same, although they are all called frog. The most incredible thing about death is that disappearing act and total silence, except in the case of poets.