For those who ask where death lives
It lives where you do. It nests at the core of the dandelion,
it walks along the surf, a single,
endless road. When it comes to the city, its clawed paws
pluck lemons from the lemon trees
and the juice runs down the rind.
Its claws are for digging, not for maiming.
Though they serve that double purpose.

Ask when you see it from the port;
Ask about the lemon trees;
Ask when they will bloom again;
That is the place where death lives.

Ask and ask until nothing’s left to ask.