If I have a kind nurse at death,
and a crimson ribbon of sunset
that turns the blue bowl black
outside a clean and fragile window,
I will pour out my gratitude
with sunken eyes that glitter still,
and trembling fingers that lift nothing
but praises,
and I will no longer imagine
that I am outpacing time, building
anything more than space allows,
or am a speck more than equal
to deer, to dandelion, or to anything.
She will take my hand in hers,
and press tears into my palm
that will receive the dust.
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