I won’t die. I know, because the sun is coming slant-wise through the blinds
and back-lit icons are gathering warmth for the night.
My small, green-leafed desk companion may wilt when the going gets tough,
but I can always bring her back with a glass of water and a song.
In any case, the mystics got it right – about fire that burns and rejuvenates,
about death that isn’t, about the mixed message of bondage.
I am already a wild ghost – only ever half here. How can something like that die?
Out West, were the fog creeps low and steady over the hills and twists
up the morning dew and rising sun in its fingers, there is enough of what is real
to buoy up this freckled skin forever.