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.