I died last night.
It was a thwack from a bus.
The day before it was slipping off a cliff.
The day before that I choked on a fish bone.
I die most nights. Not in nightmares,
but in between the dancing luminous eye worms
from blinking too tightly at the end of a long day
or in the quicksand of supermarket decisions.
I sometimes die when I’m over the moon,
or when a stranger says more than Hello.
I’ve never made it to the end of my funeral.
© Carl Burkitt 2020