What Death Said

After a while, one late afternoon
as I was walking beside the sea,
I heard Death say, “I’ll tell you a secret.
Don’t be surprised, but any theory
you invent to account for me

will be true. Not entirely true,”
he added, “but true enough.”
So I thought I would ask:
Does that mean I can prove
your powers are useless, your promises

a fraud, your presence a mere illusion?
“All of that and more,” said Death,
who had been listening to my thoughts.
“But in the end whatever
you devise you will disown.”

We walked a little farther, looking around
at nature. But what was lovely was lovely
only until it wasn’t. Which was no help.
“No help at all,” said Death, “is it?”
So then I thought of dying at peace in my bed.

“Alas,” said Death. And the sea
wore against the shore. And the birds
of that region were finishing their songs.
I could think of nothing else to think.
“You see the problem,” Death said.

“But since you’ve read so much
about me, remember—I have no reason
to deceive you. Which is why
I’m pleased you walked this far with me
as if it were your choice.”