Tagore Variations
6
The day my death arrives, drink a tall
glass of water, wipe the sweat from
your eyes with the backs of your wrists,
keep your hat on: what I’ve made of my life
forks through sage near the salvage
yard’s pile of old summers. Later, if you
pour a glass of wine, my small flame
fed in winter will go slowly through the red.
Let my last offer be like a nowhere turtle
pulling on some beach, earth’s shifting
history of rooms scooped under—I’ll slide
in from there, unhurried eye on my back. 