I expect nothing will happen to prevent this

I expect nothing will happen to prevent this One day in Michigan or Tibet part of me will push and the well will swallow me up, slack child unwanted anywhere, tossed to the waters to die trying, tight shut eyes gripping the last bursts of color slant on the retina, given by air gone bad working too hard to leave the body. At the count of thirty-six I will find the slight release ofdeath a curiosity, as if a tail fallen from a kite afloat at fifteen hundred feet, loopy knotted cotton writing Sanskrit farewells on any air that will listen. At the count of fifty-three light will return as expected, adrift in the long living room. I will stroke feathery walls that reach down to just touch the floor with a slight grey hum. The television, gone these four days, will place itself squarely on top of the trash bin, facing east. I will wait, door ajar, for what gathers late when most have gone: the edge of dawn, approaching at six hundred sixty miles per hour. At seventy-six I will find the frayed edge of my cassock between my fingers, intricate squaredance of wool long gone from the loom. It is time: 211 blue appears in noticeable places. It is time to lean against the push of porch rail, to hear mists gather at the fenceline, speaking voices once absorbed in the big room of the ocean. It is time for walls to rise all the way up to the other ceiling, to form towers wearing the fine blue silk of dawn. for Season, of which there is only One 11-26-91 Rex Walton Lincoln, Nebraska 111 ...