When I die and breathe my last,
It won’t be in or out.
I’ll take my final breath,
Hailing the silence of glass,
Glass that isn’t a solid,
But slowly cooling back
From molten silica,
The unheld breath of time.

Once dead, I’ll see the moon
As close as my hand, like this.
Who cares if there’s any water
Trapped inside its rocks
Like all the water trapped
In Bible stories, water
God brooded over, parted,
Walked on, turned to wine?

I’ll see the story of time
Made clearly visible;
I’ll see my final breath
Annealing, a miracle
Of clarity, of silence
Of water’s opposite,
A perfect silence drawn
From my blood, my noise.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 31 Number 7, on page 23
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