Listening to music and thinking of dying
as an abstract. (You cannot know it, of course,
until it happens and then you can’t tell anyone
what it is like. You will be called an abstract yourself,
naturally, almost as an afterthought. The living
will sigh and call you names under their breath,
not wanting to insult you in case…just in case…)

Meanwhile, you are listening to the music
of the acoustic guitar and there’s little to say of it
except as an abstract: the vibration of the strings
and the lyrics together are a world themselves
that you cannot enter without putting your head
into your hands.

You are crying — the song
is about life, about death, almost about rebirth
if you have the time to hear it as such.

The song ends,
but you don’t pull your hands
away from your ears, not yet. It’s been real,
too real for you.

onward,
T