When it reaches me there will be a marigold of fire brilliant as an eye
opening in the palm of my hand.
There will be a light rain of singing as I am carried down river in a boat of leaves.
When I die there will be one second of fear as when Carol reaches out at night
to lay her hand on the soft of my throat.
Fear will leave that quickly as when she rolls against me in our bed.
Even now I hear a voice like three creeks woven into one
with a skin of ice across it.
I see a circle of river rock with a fire burning inside it like an open
This is one kind of happiness.