[Jeffrey]

an elm in the midst of it all
"is composed of less than 250 words and has the primary title of 'an elm in the midst of it all'"

Everything will die, and this includes Death.
He will go as if between two mirrors,
himself staring endlessly at himself,
finally able to be beside himself
as we all claim to be when Death is near,
or his lesser kin: Half-asleep; Fevered.
Iron-hearted, he had to take them first.
Imagine: Death's life, right before his eyes:
every soldier and stillbirth, sun and moon,
line of verse and blade of grass, tact and fist,
interstate overpass, underworld gate,
linear equation, false prophecy,
ocean wave and angel wing. These, his deeds.
At last, with all this past, he too shall pass,
taking himself by the hand, endless loop,
through the ashen halls of the curved abyss,
where endless lines of spectators will watch,
in awe, at the one who laid all worlds low,
and all possible worlds, all words for "worlds,"
all possibilities of words or worlds,
all these twisting their necks at the Styx,
as he crosses that threshold, him by him,
nothingness biting (yet not) at his heels,
everything yielding in his wake, last steps,
left then right. There is nothing out of sight,
and no exception to the rule, except:
if everything must die, this includes regulations.
Death whispers Shema, Sheol, palms his coin,
and joins the rest, breaking it asunder,
and he who was hated by the old gods
smiles, and then nods as "fading" itself fades,
and something stirs under this. Something's saved.