Last things

Rainy night: is it true then 
that our tendency to lean toward
sadness is equal to the length 
of time we like to stand under 
the shower? 
             In the morning, 
folding up bedclothes I think 
about my growing list of last 
wishes. There's still so much 
my fingers would love to stroke— 
covers of unread 
                 novels, the nap
and unfinished static of knitted 
surfaces. Cheeks no longer streaked 
with tears. Yolks buried like gold 
idols inside walls of sweet lotus 
paste. I wish I were running 
               out of room for such
a list; wishing I could account 
for more joy when the coroner
comes checking; more white
walls spackled with sun.

   
 

In response to Via Negativa: Last rites.