6.8
6.8 And if to die is to move
from the ugliness of this world
then let it be; should I
welcome spring; turn summer down, and fall
from my hands; the serpent's slow unwinding, agate eyes, and blue bushes now
in flower; spice smells undo the lament
of tree leaves on the cement.
But if this cannot be
then let it die with the singing
of one lone bird, at twilight
crook the hand, crawl over, cover us with leaves.
