A year dissolves into
the final third of my life.
No drama. Just a brink, air
cool and velvet,
neither pressing nor receding.
Long before dawn I drift
dissonant between worlds,
as afraid to live as not.
So many reasons
to flee this world.
After sixty years I am
still starving for reasons
to stay. Between here
and somewhere else
ships, like prayer calls,
haunt the Willamette.
I listen. I atone.
But I am not at one.
Damn body that still clings
to its myth of separation.
Damn night I can't unsee.
Damn river
and all its unboundedness.