Rust gathers in the backyard
of an elderly neighbor I no longer see,
painting the charcoal grill, fire pit,
and patio chairs—a requiem in iron,
oxygen, and hydrogen, played
like slow piano music across the periodic table.
Waning days as predictable as a doctor
tapping the patellar tendon and the reliable jerk.

I remember how I thought I could think
my way past anesthesia, past the clean
erasure of consciousness,
and the anesthesiologist’s smug certainty
that I would be sleeping at ninety-three
if I counted down from one hundred,
and how he laughed when I woke
and asked if I had won.

I go down to the riverbank at dusk
and choose two smooth, wet stones,
turning them over in my hand,
let their coolness pass through me.
In the coming abyss, with no beads
to count, no cross in my pocket,
I speak silently to the stars.
The stones grow warm in my hand.
It’s almost time to put them back.