october twenty-fifth time

for those situations that make us
heroic, that remind us to
know our religions and our salves,
i beg of you to kiss
your elbows, pour over
your atlas, and breathe
in a greedy lake of air--
                   to not apologize
for wanting to live--it is a warm
crush of heat before the flame's pinched
out and it spans the blink
of an eyelid. i have learned that the body
softens at death as though it is not
afraid. It is only rigid later
when the Self has eked out
between each pore like something
gently pollinating the earth