This is how death may come,
a Sunday night, laying down
a foolish book, my shirt pulled
over my head and tucked
beneath the pillow for morning.
My hair shining gold in the light,
my vanity, my judge in the mirror
soon to be draped, no pendulum
to stop. It's late. Red numbers
flash the hour. I'll close my eyes
and follow my breath, the path
to tomorrow, life or death.