The Taste of Me

Everything is more poetic
when you are preparing to die.

Especially at marble quarries,
somewhere distant,
   maybe Iran.

It’s noon, and everything
    takes a minute now

I zigzag back home and sit
in-front of an instrument so loud
that if the neighbors heard,
they’d call it in

And at 5am
I’m in the sauna.

That’s how six months went by.