Happening alone
at dusk upon
a hollow,
illumined
by this mangy
inter-generational grove
of flameyellow trees
which rings
its ragged perimeter, I see
in an instant,
the impossible mystery
of my own continuity—
that thought
which still remains abstract,
once in a picture
is crystal—precious as it is
pathetic,
solemn, but breezily irreligious:
like these, I die
to watch my way of life
survive;
and life-after-death
snaps
to sheer certainty,
as long as there's
no future outside
of—today.
