Obits

A hundred years from now we’ll all be dead.
Meanwhile, let’s be this mayfly in my room whose
whole life span contracts into today.

What will we make from our hours before midnight?

There. I’ve spread the wings we kept concealed.
We’re out the window, our past one second passed!
We’ve never seen a backyard in such light—all the
shrubs saints, and each one in nimbus,