it is so easy to go.
one responsible, polite
breaking at a time,
sinking unobserved into the soft horizontal sigh
of welcome, to lie down in found beds
of unhatched cicadas,
and bulbs of tulip, and tuberose sleeping
and to be still.
it is so easy to not rise
like the crocus-bird, flying inches above some
ice,
soaring amethyst and green
against the whiteout sky
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