Far from the possibility of my death – like the rest of people –
And the body becomes compost for a tree
Some of it attaches to the wheels of a car
Or a bird feels greed for a piece of meet
So it leaps with its beak toward me…

Or the street cleaners sweep it along
I become as good as abandoned debris

Or the broom could strike me to the pile to burn
I say:
Far from the thoughts grow in the pathways of the head
If I didn’t find you
Would I have survived?