After will in the shape of an Egyptian plover pries me

loose from the teeth of a crocodile methodically

dozing in the netherworld’s plug-in sun, I will come

 

back to you, World, wholehearted for the real, having

fed too long on its substitute. My lungs will plump

in actual air, my skin will pink, I’ll be gone one minute

 

back in it in the next, and only half abashed as you

start ribbing me to death for thinking death could ever

be able to keep us from devouring each other when

 

even we can’t stanch it. Archetypical picnic blanket

flattened in the dappling by the sun-flecked creek.

In an eyeblink, I’m all over it. You bring me: livestock

 

cut in portions, herbaceous intoxicants, a snowy mountain

peak made visible as the cloud cover thinks itself

over and dissipates. Tuna fish and breakfast flakes,

 

the lawn clippings’ secret heat, bees in the foxglove,

celery, and 14.5 pounds per square inch of air pressure

here on land (a little more at sea). I bring you: room

 

and board for your infinite bacteria, parasites, and viruses.

Moreover, history has proven me your last available

amanuensis many nights, transcribing your vibrations

 

into jingles into morning. Times when I grow weary

of English sentences—the way they keep on insisting

something is something else, or something is doing

 

something to something else, or to itself, or nothing—

you let me hum. I’m humming now, counting the hours

until the plover carries me back in pieces in its beak.

 

Since my death, I’m not so anxious anymore. I can wait

like math on a damp day: my lone solution imminent

in the storm. But to have lived in you as I did, truly lovingly

 

despite big differences, should guarantee my passage

won’t be long. Make it happen, and whatever you need,

I’ll be there for you, you know that. Even if it kills me.

 

 

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