DYING
I guess I'll go down somewhere, doing
what I want. My head hitting the table,
with a downward clunk : spilling the
colored pencils, and dropping a few
open books to the floor; Knocking
down too, the drawing book and the
camera, and making a plastic racket
as I scatter across the laptop-keyboard.
-
Maybe, in that final instant, and on my
way down, I'll remember some Christian
saint who died like that among - instead of
plastic items - flowers, twigs, and branches.
Probably not though, because I really don't
know of any who did that.
-
It will be my fondest hope to still be at home,
set out as if just described. A fireplace, blazing
with desire, though me or it, I'm not sure, off
in the background : something meticulously
designed by Dali : Time melting over rocks,
a balance-level unable to move? A Spanish
castle, with both floor and ceiling gone?
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