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"It Is Not the Fact That I Will Die That I Mind

but that no one will love as I did

the oak tree out my boyhood window,

the mother who set herself

so stubbornly against life,

the sister with her serious frown

and her wish for someone at her side,

the father with his dreamy gaze

and his left hand idly buried

in the fur of his dog.

And the dog herself,

that mournful look and huge appetite,

her need for absolute stillness

in the presence of a bird.

I know how each of them looks

when asleep. And I know how it feels

to fall asleep among them.

No one knows that but me,

No one knows how to love the way I do."

- Jim Moore