i need to walk the dying road
where the dying things are scattered,
handfuls of gems underfoot-
a corner gilded and flashing bone-bare
in the last weakness of sun.

the thread binds my way, pushes me
from death to death, psychopompos
looking for a way to catalogue each facet
of shining rot, of charming decay
to get it down in the books, and rest in winter.

(then there’s no dying, just dead.)
in this last half, then, I follow the dying things,
let my eyes fill with the motion of living to ash.

---

Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)

• so many things . . .
• Clutching Attachment vs. The Cheerful Contemplation of Mortality
• Time to grow up