I need to pay more attention to the raspberries,
how reds deepen to purple: ripe, to riper, to rot,
and how the aurora shines lavender under the black sky,
unseen to the naked eye. I need to pay attention

to naked: the garden dirt crusted in my wrinkled skin
and how skin clings to bones the way I cling to life,
the way the cucumber’s withered stalk manages
to produce one more fruit before frost: small, hook-necked,
but still sweet. Close your eyes—you won’t know the difference
between the taste of this mutant, and some random specimen
from the supermarket, waxed, Botoxed into cucumber perfection.

Isn’t that what they do in spas—cucumber slices
over your eyes? Is it something about cucumbers,
or something about cool? Or something cliché
about this myth of perfect skin? Eyes open,
I see my veins crawling, like the spider webs
on all the Halloween houses decked out in pumpkin:
the vinyl blow-ups—and the real ones, in shiny skin
waiting for the virgin cut, hands pulling from viscera
the seeds slated for roasting, before fabricating scary faces.

I need to pay more attention to ghosts. Not the plastic
imitations. The real ones. I need to learn their habits,
so when I die, I won’t have to ask for directions. I’ll know
when to touch someone gently, and when to let things be.
I need to pay attention to everything under the canopy
of dark: learn to navigate the nebula’s sheen of stars;
swim through the milky way; float on the moon; come back
as a ladybug, a butterfly, a spider creeping along the ceiling
of someone I used to love deeply in this short and wispy life.