death poem

to come so soon to this imagined dark
i've won the race
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
dark-eyed
she knows a cheap release
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
as i lie roofed in, screened in
up from the meadows rich with corn
sleep, gray brother of death
the stars fell from heaven
afraid no more, i say
she heard the children playing in the sun