I chose this at the beginning, before the "I",
this dance with death on the endless razor's edge.
Entwined in life's embrace we whirled across time,
his breath on my neck and his certainty in my ear.
May the last song be a slow dance, soothing me down
from all that I have carried, unwinding, shedding,
drinking in our final moments together as two,
before merging in One.
For when the dance ends I will be free of that choice,
and I will thank him for this meeting under the moonlit flower
in the dirt on this cosmic clod of magnificence.
What will come then, in that indeterminate freedom?
Will I choose again, and greet him reborn for another turn,
for another dance of symmetry in the chaos of a super nova?
Or will I, after a rest, unburdened by passions,
seek no further identity in dancing?
It must be enough, it seems, while the dance still swirls,
to know not what I am, but only that I am.
