little death
recently died now
the big one looms
you’re a soft target
to what comes:
the heart jumping
like jack
the tongue rolled
up like a sleeping
bag, touch under
the brush
of sandpaper
your face oblivion 
in the morning sun
& in the no moon
of the new moon
your garden’s
in menopause.
even the young
are dying old

what will it be
not to be here but
only a wave in the sky
or a particle
thrown into the ocean
at high tide