Until the very end of dying
      there will be one wind in your throat
      and one train, voic­es and a storm.
Once the land­scapes are gone and the end itself is over
      you will be an out­line on a dis­tant ice floe.
And once the last face has happened
      only the sky and your face will remain incomplete.
Rock will come to its long end­ing, earth to its deep ending.
      And beyond the sky you will breathe.
Yet this image only will endure on the skin
      and then, behind anoth­er and behind one unknown:
a cathe­dral, its bot­tom made of fog and leaves.
Just an image, an expe­ri­ence. Do not get con­fused. Ban­ish thought,
      for your sake, the cathe­dral’s, the leaves’.
Thus the lone­li­ness will no longer be personal.
      Light will breathe beyond the sky,
unfinished.
Before the soul there will be cer­tain signs: 
      bracelets, rings, pearls, moth­er-of-pearl buttons -
spaces and objects of prognostication. 
      And then from the Atlantic
the land of mir­rors emerges.
      And slow­ly you recall the town where your
eyes began, for the first time.
 

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