for Emily Dickinson

Only the last few chords
of a song I heard this morning
connect me to that world
where I find my reflection
in every pool, my shadow
on every stone.

No longer the self
reaffirming its presence
in statement and gesture,
engraving its meaning
on a life made of steel.
Not even a dream to cling to.

I think death
must taste like this
in its first sweet moments. 
First the warm wash of sadness,
then the cold letting go.

 

Hear it:

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