Photo by Brian Ferry
Let me die on a shimmering summer's day, my eyes
burning like torches—aflame, and swallowing
that Eden—my body painted with
skylight, throbbing inside an
endless yawn of clover.
Let me die in the changing wind
of a plummeting evening, my
lips wide with gratitude, my
cheeks firm with authenticity.
Let me die boundless and ageless,
my face smudged with dust from
the hidden stars, and with traces
of places much larger than me.
Let me die… Oh! But then, dying by
design is a battle unto itself—and, as if
I could. As if my perfect plan were nobler
than the tender hover of The Universe as it halts
in mid-whirl, glances in my direction, and mutters,
Come, Beloved. Come!
