A strange relationship, the body with time,
knowing whose say is final before the curtain.
Surrender not a western word except in twelve-
step, denial a convenient replacement.
Washing my hair, the fine filaments fuse
my fingers into a fetus’ webbed hand,
as if rehearsing for the no-body swim.
No corporeal portal where we’re going. No
luggage to lug but what’s in our head. No,
even that is shed, though the living may wish
there were no such things as ghosts.
Each subtraction a pause between breaths,
the meditation towards death so subtle,
I almost miss it.
