What I Imagine to See when I Die.

When I died,
I saw you first,
painted in golden light
a butterfly, yellow and even,
green bright satisfying
the lumps in my throat
quietly swallowing
gobs of light and swirls of dill
memories, fresh, startled,
misty and unordered,
time dissolving

an eddy of image
crumpled sheets like
hastily frosted cake;
on the third floor,
cowhide smells and driftwood
furniture, my lazy leg
wrapped around your middle
assuming you; bright purple
dresses, a color between
violet and the pink
of lilies in the spring;
green eyes and hazel eyes
and brown eyes
and blue eyes; women
occupying chambers of my heart
the aorta pulsing
their flavors throughout
the grass, my glassy eyes

like dripped-ink negatives
the suffering muscles,
the warmed evenings
the close wide mouths
the wetness and silence
the screams and violence
and wishing for more
more more to give you
and stretch out and leave
time to stay in a bubble
in a bed with you, to extend
the pleasure of our laziness
to maximum and drift off
away from the world
on a cloud of soaking black ink,
my postulations
only dissonant reflections
of the actual and experience.