When you diehere are the options:everything or oblivion
A centre of light and around itall you love, those deadand those abiding stilland each holdingan object of endearmentyou lost long agobefore you came toknow and be simultaneouslyat lastat restbeyond words
Or else your cellsstop their chemicaltalk, the neurons say noand their warmth leaves younot with blacknot even the absence of black--nothing of earth's up, round, biomass, spanjust the nonexistenceyou tried to conjure onceby closing your eyes andsleeping, except that dreamsfired their figmentsacross space at youand your muscles straining
While we livewe pick one of these optionsto live by, and neither is understoodthe way the robin in the tree iswho speaks to us of March lust,the way water and clouds arewhich tell us to walk outinto the day, how to stepon grass and mud and feel the pullupward and then sag an hour laterdown, we with our little timeand our ideas and our blood
