But what of dying?
The deaths we have known,
the endgame words, the serrated lives,

returned to us now full circle
as a ball that once held
seems to grow rounder

in a day that stands up straight
like the patient seabird.
And then just like that

with idle speed, no wake,
a writhing sun coughs its
redness upon our eyes,

and in a blink
we call night
incontinent clouds narrate

And soon anything means everything.
What is left of dying?

Flags of waving trees that semaphore a truce
like a firewall, on one side morning glorys
restating round and round

this tight need for pole, and on the other
the non-need of poles to be vined,
of cake to be crowned with a couple,

so that in the end
the way a puff . . . [Full Text of this Article]