he said he wanted to die
like an artist
he wanted to be as aware
as possible
and feel and know
every moment of his death
he wrote
“how much the ocean and shore
could have taught me
about this death of mine
the endless waves of liquid pain
tearing into me
and wearing me away”
“how much the plants and earth
could have prepared me
for this reality
the roots digging
into my soul
to nurture their blades and leaves
the cycles of hope
and sunny days
followed by clouds and cold rain
by ragged wind and finally
slow cooling
the theft of moisture
drying crackling and falling
bits of life
snatched away”
“how much the earth
could have told me
the nature
of its extremities
the long seasons
of barren cold
and forgotten lies”
some deaths he might have endured
intact as an artist
but in the end
he preferred oil of poppy
soft breezes
across the tender clover
he had become