Dave Bonta's "Mortality" begins with a startling image: the speaker wakes to find themselves already laid out in a grave. There is no panic in the telling. The statement is flat and quiet, as if this were just another morning, and that calm is what makes it unsettling.
Then the poem splits between hope and fear. Hope is a "far tree intended / for many birds," a distant, generous image of life and shelter, though the word "far" suggests it is hard to reach. Fear is stranger: a wall with a talking clock that "is going to lie." A clock stands for time, so the speaker seems to dread being told something false about how much of it is left, or what it means.
The mood is eerie and dreamlike, a little like a nightmare told in a steady voice. The poem leaves us with uncertainty rather than answers, which suits its subject: nobody can fully know what death holds.