If lucky I will die in a room
of non-hospital green, on plump pillows,
good linens, with good family and good friends,
the ghosts of loves, the odorama
of nitrate seas, forests or mountains on
walls.
Room where well-cast dreams lived and died.
Will my death be the end of a long love,
mystery, tragedy or comedy,
flashback to life or final nightmare?
Will your face be the last frame or just
the quieter, dustier bed
out there in the sun— the rain?
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