A Death

Your last corridor was of snow-white Carrara;

by the time you were walking it, our goodbyes

had already echoed themselves into silence.

Your feet on that floor would have lisped

apprehensively; you would have had questions,

but there was no one to answer.

Outside your death, we listened; heard you struggling

along that Via Dolorosa; saw the body, not the spirit

slipping away, and cursed the cold marble of dying.