I too shall. This thought frightens me
less. Amazes more. I think of those
who admire beauty of life. Like a dew
drop on a fence line. Once I said I love
you to an ending candlewick. It blushed
as the wind ran over it. I believed I
fulfilled its never pronounced last wish.
In the knownness of a spent dawn once
I rambled back. Too personal a dream
memory, I saw my ghost whistling. How
it looked at me with the rage of a sea that
lost its tides. Then what it did was wish me
luck. For what I thought. My labor to achieve
the state. Or anything else that’s as hidden to
me as the answer of, does the comb understand
the vocabulary of hair. Or the not-so-close-pixels
of desires even unjoined shape up to become a
boat. How it sleeps a sleep of sorrow in
waterlessness. I am more a story that knows
its end. Not how it can be reached. Like the
assumption of ninth life without living the eights.
I know my ghost shall never know the geometry
of touches this body polymerizes in its foldings.
How it would never understand the run of emotion-
electrons through me. Those charged my body like
a palindromic beauty. Like the autumn branch on
receiving the first leaf bud. I whisper myself this
is maybe a joyful wholeness. From remembering
to forgetting. It’s a natural force that’ll destroy
the meat that makes me. What is the word
for a journey that demands an isolation to
walk on a path never witnessed before. I
conceive what it might be. Shall it be a
bridge above a river of thunderings. Or
an underearth tunnel filled with mollusks
Or a forest whose trees have teeth and hunger
for everything that’s not them. And in absence
of any specific answer I look at the skies. Dang!
Evening! The sunrays receding westward. The birds
winded inside the routine clamor. I occur to be in a
dilemma. Still manage to delineate shadow out of my body