––My grief is that I bear no grief / and so I bear myself.
            	   					   –Jon Anderson

I’ll look up.
I’ll take a drink of water.
I’ll set down my cup.
When it’s time.
I’ll close the book I’m reading.
I’ll leave through the sliding glass door.
Then stop.
When it’s time.
I’ll blink in hard light.
Bring my hands to my face.
Then let them fall.

To the man sitting on my steps
I will answer, Wind in winter
taught me to stoop.

To the bills and letters in the red-flagged box
reply, Take my boots,
my books, the jar of sea glass,

the sick orchid I never let die.
As I walk the white streets,
traffic lights will blink

amber and amber.
To the rusted bridge I cross
I will offer, Here is my name

weighing no more than sunlight,
my height and weight,
the blue of my eyes.

When it’s time.
I will stand like a man at attention.
I will empty my pockets

of keys, chap stick, pens,
a thin fin of jade
I was never able to lose.

When it’s time,
I will stare at the frozen river
and sing, I am the son of a photograph,

the son of a photograph,
until my voice sounds strange
floating like smoke into cottonwoods.