Wednesday, January 01, 2020
TO BE READ EACH NEW YEAR AND AGAIN WHEN YOU HEAR OF MY DEATH
I wish only to
come back as grass
on a wind-swept
plain. Death is what
death is. My atoms
will dance again
in some sun, will
be pulled into
a black hole, be
attracted to
the Great Attractor
and whatever
the Attractor is
attracted to.
This is beyond
my perfect knowing
in this body,
of course, yet all
the stars assure me:
they are the only
angels there are.
