happy birthday to me

who’s going to stop the skies

who’s going to halt the spinning and tumbling
of slices when everything dies?

who’s going to watch as the trains slide and fall past the platform –
not step through the doors, but wait while circles are broken and formed
till the end of all days

and who will be brave
and keep their expressions and lines on their wrists from holding the shopping ; the chasing of tails and unknowns and the dropping of 20p pieces you find in divides
in the road,
and who will be willing to save
november on skin and salt on the wind and weather-worn hands and fountains that shoot from
the stomach, and untraveled lands

here is a candle to light you to bed
what use is your candle
to me when I’m dead?

who’s going to save me from ticking of breath? and
who’s going to steal me from death?