Keeping Cool While Being Transprted
Shall we be carried away like fish,
or a bird scooped up from a pond of sky?
Will winged creatures of mythical belief assemble
at one synaptic point, just for each sudden death?
Will we go hot and heavy,
or coolly into the flowing bright,
or into both darkness and light
carried by one nose or ear hair,
or a blood drained toe,
baldly bawling or sweetly serene?
Perhaps departing tethered to a rippling back,
between silver moth wings singed
with a fiery transcendence
as we scorch through astral drapes?
The cold side of the moon may open
as a pure Day-Lily; a clerking ghost
busily writing our years of last words.
At pieces or peace among the white satin lining
of funeral flowers we will either appear or disappear,
once more boxed snugly in
against infinity.
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