In terms of comfort, It was just shy of “brisk” spring, And I had goosebumps.
But it didn’t matter, Not really, since the sun Was a cascade
That trickled through tree Branches; soaking through clothes and Going up noses.
I let it fill me, Clogging the back of my throat Like cotton, bad news.
White light traveling, Bursting my veins, splitting through Bone, sinew, and skin,
Until there’s nothing. No corpse, ash, or fine vapor, Just absence of what was.