You know you will never
see a photo
of yourself
in an obituary,
under the circumstances,
the weather
kissing the leaves, brushing
trees with a shake,
nobody expects to die
in autumn,
only seeing the world
through the living,
wondering how you got
on the inside,
you see the world
with their vision,
their eyes,
only without rhyme
or reason, poignant,
understanding their grief,
or indifference,
wondering how you got here,
and what's next,
if this fleeting moment,
ephemeral,
lasts all eternity, processing
time,
lingering over old wounds,
feeling dead,
not unexpected but
still not living,
endless participation
in sorrow,
virtual reality,
like a game,
exactly so,
hyper-realistic,
realism gone overboard,
the ship
sails from New York Harbor
to Port au Prince,
even though you don't know
French, le français,
earthquakes aside, Haitians
see hurricanes
as important as the language
you speak,
pretend the Atlantic
isn't that cold,
however no one can see
that you've gone
overboard,
into the frigid waters,
to feel your spirit drown
in the ocean,
only this is better than
feeling dead.
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