It strikes me

            That the hardest death –

            The one that sticks 

            Like sand in your gums

            And turns a coffee 

            Into lukewarm water from a tap,

            That narrows the eyes a bit

            Because their morning wreath

            Of slightly sagging flesh

            Remains throughout the day and

            Night, when it arrives,

            Brings backward-looking dreams –

            The hardest,

            As I think of you and yours,

            Is more the one that’s like

            A tree grown bare

            By the anticipated stealth 

            Of cold

            Don’t ask me why

            Maybe it’s because

            The world

            For unambitious cynics

            Is nirvana

            And for idealists,

            A drag