I think I will die
in the eye of a hurricane
I previously have died there
a time ago
dying bothers me not
been there done that as the man said
I will die on a Sunday
they will be singing hymnals
of my departure
though they no nothing of it as yet
still . . .
a hymn is a hymn is a . . .
as I write these lines
I see the face
waiting for me on the other side
never before have I seen
my exit so crisp and inviting
it is because of her
and her wonderful waiting arms