The time is near.
Your cells decided.
Seeping from your
skeleton, they go
into the sky like
stars themselves,
working in four
dimensions until,
at some point,
the radiation falls
to zero — your energy
must be long gone.

And what you have
yet to do, and
what you have
done — it is all
one. The sun is
gone. Your boots
make no sound
on the snow.
You're counting
down, not knowing
quite when to
stop, only knowing
it will be soon,
somewhere near
the edge of the

earth, where
a choir is chanting
to a molecular
tune, harnessing
light in waves.

About the Poet

Laura Merleau has two cats who love nothing more than traveling with her across country to visit her family living everywhere from Seattle to Texas to New York. Her poems have recently appeared or will soon appear in Ragazine, The Los Angeles Review, and Qarrtsiluni.