TWILIGHT


                                   When I am dead and vermicelli,
                       
                                    What will be my epitomb?

                                    A life measured out in coffee grounds:

                                    Incognito ergo sum.

                                    Did angels nobble my blueprint?  Zounds!

                                    Was I bond or free?


                                    When I am bonemeal or wurst,

                                    Did I bat for Gaia?  Or number one?

                                    No, I ran short, an artless dodger.

                                    So if karma collects from atman, then

                                    When dismembered, if remembered,

                                    Blessed or cursed?

                                                                             Michael Small

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