What is it about flame-clad autumn trees

that makes them look bigger than they were in summer

What is it about the particular thinness of air

that makes me rub my eyes

What is it about the light and all this transparency

that squeezes my heart

I would rather

love the living world in its dying

I would rather

hold it close to my chest with its comforting warmth

Breathe its particular odour of gentle decomposition

I would rather

stay in the homely mess of here and now

I would rather care

than win

I would rather falter

than triumph

I would rather crumble

than outlive everything that loves me

I would rather accept the goodness of now

Than hope for the future at the expense of the present.

I have believed in the afterlife for way too long

In my youth, I stood by the entrance of the subway station

handing out brochures and telling strangers about heaven

While avoiding their eyes

Stifling my own doubts

And artfully ignoring the hell around me

I may have lost that faith

I may be losing the hope I have left

But with every falling leave

With every full moon

With every departing flock of geese

My love of dying things grows stronger.