The thing about drowning, it would be peaceful,
though I’d mess it up with panic, the will to see
one more monarch feeding on a milkweed pod.
Even if balmy, as awful as throwing oneself
from a moving van, a condo window.
Tidal beds are definitely not for lovers —
too much dousing, too much desiccation.
Much better to be a barnacle in the brine,
a harbor seal holding your shoes, the divine
a dozen blue dashers circling your head.
Whether standing on the steps
of the Heart Prairie Lutheran Church
or the banks of Pleasant Lake,
whether one’s ticker does or doesn’t
murmur beside a moraine, Death
drives up in his Mini Cooper, sure
as you’ll find the silver-bordered fritillary
all across the transboreal north, nectaring
on swamp verbena and rabbit brush.