For weeks, you’ve stopped putting away the towels.
You leave them in a folded stack on the floor
beside their home closet. It’s not that
you want to kill yourself today, or this year, but that
you look forward to dying— you always have—
in the same way one looks forward to a birthday party
or vacation, in fact, you believe death is a vacation,
a vacation away from one body and into another,
from human to ant, or oak, or goose, or stone, or river.
That’s it, in the next go-around you’d like to be a river.
