CONSIGNMENT
One day you finally
got tired of thinking
about dying. About
your body and its little
woes. You understood
there’s a world
out there beyond
your skin that doesn’t
care a fig or a thistle
what you’re thinking,
where you go,
whether you live
or not.
That was the day
you consigned yourself
to your dust,
and, like Job,
declared yourself
content.