First, I identify
what needs to close:
aspects of life, of love,
of anger, of terror at
known
and unknown.

When it comes down to it
there isn’t much left: a wash
has cleaned my eyes
to what’s past; only a few
peaks poke up and
they aren’t close and may not
see me at all. Still,
something tugs me
here and there — even though
these things aren’t critical
to me —

when it comes
to what I may
leave behind I want to be
sure, sure as an ocean
striking its beaches —
sure as a wandering ghost,
a grateful dead man; I want
everything, trivial or crucial,
to be equal
as I go away from them.

It is not a long process
and before long I am done —

leaving ten thousand poems,
then visiting ten thousand lakes
and ten thousand streams.

Drinking
a last good shot
of really good whisky;
taking
one last draw
on a good, grand cigar.

Thinking about one last poem;
discarding that dream because
it belongs
to someone else now and they
are too worried about it
to hear it at this moment.
But they will.

When I lie down that day, it will come to me;
it will rise up and seize hold —
one more item I forgot to mention —

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T