I’d like another life
similar to this one—
up to now it hasn’t been
too bad. Like everyone else,
I’m a portable absolute
covered in relative fluff,
skin-eclipsed, wrapped
in earmarked earth.
Each day is a spark
struck on a flinty coast,
the body always on its way
to the past, a wishbone
wasting translucent and dry.

Instead of a flat-line fade
I hear the transition phase
between this life and the next
is like swimming
in seltzer, a clear drop
to an effervescent void,
a freefall tipped with bubble
wings. I’ll hit bottom-
line nature at last,
where old habits never die—
they just re-group
and bob to the surface
as future events.