Death Was My Virgil

Death Was My Virgil Death was my Virgil And he took me straight to Hell. It was the last, strange exit on the IRT And I could not tell If it was elevated or deep underground. It held vast cities, Fronting winnowed beaches, Long passage ways, illusionary far, Where no run reaches And desperate shafts of light Slanting down to suffocating rooms All jumbled in position, Like Goya drawings Of the dungeons of the Inquisition. And no one bedded there To give direction to an exit Or an upward stair. Death then, suddenly, disappeared And I stood alone, Staring at stretched buildings, Hot with sun, Or highways in the Earth Bereft of everyone. Those that dream are not depressed. Though in that place may come to dwell. They will know that Heaven shrinks And dwindles when compared to Hell. Carl Estrin