In the never—sleep of dying
I imagine death a needle
threading itself in and out
of the seam between land and sky
that is one moment seen
on the horizon—concrete as a tree
or a boulder—and then is gone.
It is that fast,
that nondescript.
You come to see the sheet
that covers me rise and fall,
thinking the morphine so thick
in my veins that I am half-petrified:
you need to believe this. It's easier
to watch a person die if you think
he is not watching you live.
For you, death is a spot in the sky
that catches your eye and slips
its knot before you can name it.
In some other set of circumstances
it will retie its loose ends
around your finger to remind you
of something you thought you'd never forget.
Death is for the living—
the white sheet lifting, barely
falling, and me very quiet.