Curiously—it was always
there,
in his lonelier moments
and places—
for a split second
passing under-
neath the heady
bloom of shrubshade, say
or again
at low evening—
at the exact instant
when
on an inhale—the very first chilly
filament of
wind
came to chase away
the erstwhile day's collected
friendly and sympathetic heat;
that's when—
the feeling
would grip him
without warning
or reason—
that
everything—every
single
little thing
he was not currently doing
at the time—
signified an ending,
and every ending
was it's own small death.
But death—he would subsequently
realize
invariably
when exhaling
heavily
the groggy perfumed air—
was not
the opposite
of life,
but rather—just the inverse
of a messy
and difficult
birth.
