by Nick Andrea
There’s one minute left, an eternity from here to there,
like, as they say, the moment before death, when one’s whole life flashes before our eyes.
Death, tonight, is the book exchange closing,
I delay the inevitable passage to the other side of That,
fall into the ground from which spring book exchange, book, life.
Upon this mirror, prose from some other penman appears:
a little girl;
the neighbor’s trash cans lining the street;
Mormon missionaries invited in to pray for father and little girl;
a bottle of milk sitting on the table next to a glass of wine.
an autumn breeze dancing a thousand fallen sufis into whirling dervishes (my addition);