Death

How many doors will this man open
And stand with his skull against the light
And move his reddened eyes like hyphens
On the right parchment of his face,

Insert his stick and grasp the post
And lift his legs over the threshold
And let his free hand, white as chalk,
As cold as sculpture, hang like cheese?

The number of his entrances
Is known: the door will shortly open
And he will not be there, the light
Will shine into the room and back

Along the straight corridor upon
Himself advancing with some hope
Toward the gateposts and the void
(Between them) of his older shape.

--- ©1940 Roy Fuller
(1912 - 1991)