Sunset

If I had
disappeared
years before today

into the hard
landscape of 
my greatest longing

and ended up as
anonymous bones
scattered along an arroyo

I would still be
better off than 
I am now. 

You don’t see
how that could be
possible. From within

your deep love
of life you
cannot see 

how such a blotting out
could be
desirable.

Look at the sunset,
which will be over
soon.  Look at

the way it reds
and then purple-grays
the west-facing slopes,

then think of 
never seeing it again
except in memory:

think of how
lovely it was and
of how its beauty

only existed
as a result of
its vanishing.