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