BLINDMAN'S BLUFF

Death's an early riser.
You've got to be real quick
To slip under his arm
Stretched toward you in the street.

His nails brushing you,
Press yourself against the wall,
Eyes wide open,
While he spins around,

In his white blindfold,
Arms like a Dutch windmill,
Or like huge scissors
On the pavement already crowded
With schoolchildren.