Last Rites

She stands against the sunrise
in a dream where I am less than me;
where she has wrapped my body
in her bedsheet — where she has
opened a window to let my ghost out.
And the cold doesn’t bother her.
She watches her breath ascend
and bets which of us will disappear first.
I touch the tops of the Douglas Firs —
And I know I will always remember her
standing there, saying nothing,
burying me long before I was dead.
I wake cold in my bed,
and I still don’t know what is real.


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