Metamorphosis of a Stranger

Kafka died today,
or maybe it was yesterday.
Going on five in the morning,
stumbling home from a bar
called The Wrath of God.
The sun rose like a singer
reaching for a note
just beyond range in an aria.
Crashing against his eyelids,
eardrums, falling against the margins
of the whitecaps of language.
There are no more names.
The metamorphosis has occurred.
The original version is lost
to the guts of cities and now
life is a film in black and white,
but I imagine long neon
where words take on flesh.
I pace here for a moment,
your lips half-open to mine.
I cannot read your subtitles,
but I am a thief by nature.
I have already stolen your words,
adopted them, raised them
as if they were my own daughters.
I have also stolen a gun
so that I may die when I want,
how I want; so that I may not
become a cockroach on trial
for the disappearance of you.