The Nothing That Is Something

 

At Sunset

by Jason Shinder

Your death must be loved this much.

You have to know the grief—now.

Standing by the water’s edge,

looking down at the wave

touching you. You have to lie,

stiff, arms folded, on a heap of earth

and see how far the darkness

will take you. I mean it, this, now—

before the ghost the cold leaves

in your breath, rises;

before the toes are put together

inside the shoes. There it is—the goddamn

orange-going-into-rose descending

circle of beauty and time.
You have nothing to be sad about.