When I think about how death might less darkly find its way, I think about the stippled glasses at my favorite café (into which the pertest primroses, noon-yellow or dusk-pink, have been slipped, perhaps, to offset my upset). I think about how trypophobia is another way of fearing death—we sufferers know that voids threaten to multiply until only one void is left. The All Void. We sinners know. Voids should never cluster like breathy girls at a sleepover, but they do. Oh they do. (You know how they do.) If I blink away from lotuses, please read it less—as a rejection of anything but annihilation. Look less in its face. If stipes rise on my arms like soldiers, I pass. Muster. If face is seeds and a bootleg mirror, cripple-ple-ple-ple. Oh please—furl and fill! No longer say dark. Say unbright and stay whole.