by Grace Dion

No bursting artery should end me,
nor do I want to slip away
by increments, comatose.
I prefer to see the dark blanket coming,
hears its susurrations,
feel its black-ribboned edge
tickle my neck,
then flutter back, in slight reprieve.

Let me die attentively,
clear-eyed, head-on,
as solitary as I've lived;
hat cocked, hand out ---
if not in welcome,
then in equanimity.

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