Haze and Mist

Again this morning  I postponed dying. No, no,  not suicide, but that routine dying, habitually almost.  I dusted off the membrane of night,  got Bob on the lead,  then we walked into morning air.  (Mornings are beautiful beings !)  There is an un-breathed breathing,  a sort of suspension of an air-intake,  when the inhalant burns deep  in the labouring wind pipe.  Something of that sort happened to me this morning and I let go of the daily dying.  I felt uplifted.  So listen: let the world go to blazes!  Do your thing, Stop dying. 

 Already half the May gone,  not so far from resolution– for four months isn't far.  Six decades long habit has grown old in the body,  touched ground, turned soft.  I have been practicing reclination.  supine, for when they box me in the corpse mustn't revolt.  Nothing to be done now of all those procrastinations.  You are gone; they, as good as gone!