The third rebirth I wake one winter morning, months early Somewhere before living and after death. Thin shocks of bright pain Seize and twist until all the electric goes out. A sleepless, anxious, destruction lust Scratching red-filled lines in gray crust. The supple Simple seeming twig, that snaps clean And bleeds green white. The cool cataract Of final stillness. The sun the muted color of hail Hacking pockmarks in snow-flesh. The clear Silver color that cuts people in two As mirrors do. Numb, painless and sightless. Too stiff muscles that snap like harp strings, bones That curl in and lock tight, parched eyes that go black.