The False Conclusion

Death is probably a pronoun
the width of one breath, ever tall,
no resting place is deep enough
to capture body and angel inside.
We of the managerial class
empty our pockets and clasp
hands over our mouths gaped
 wide in a stupid kind of shock.
Who needs to know this
except the survivors,
the ones the earth might keep
or place in her old trust?
It is a mystery, a blank wall
no one climbs anymore
for fear it might just end
as a type of relapse
with acute tendencies.