There is nothing all people do
but glide into the uneasy weight
of death. Here, too, we start:
You are eight and sun dries
off the body before you’re out of the water.
At thirteen another impermanence,
knowing fireflies are alive by the way
they blink. You place a hand over
your chest and feel it rise and tumble.
Twenty, a formal dance
with a woman and how a night
can’t swallow ballroom chandelier fire.
Finally, how stars dissolve into
water and air and dark: maybe with sound
but not anything you will hear
until it has allowed itself to catch up to you.