It seems inconceivable,
reading on a couch on a Sunday afternoon,
that one day I’ll die
and my decades of warmth will release
back into the sky’s body
and my footprints will wear away
like a pillow forgetting the shape
of a face.

Suppose I grant you the premise of your question.

Should I gather up my limbs at once
and build something immortal with them?

What could I construct to outlast
the drowsy calm of this moment?

I have seen too much destruction already. Limbs
torn down to make way for greed, or, worse,
the illusion of grandeur; lakes drained
and whole towns gathered at the shore, aching
for how the waters used to feed winter’s light;
moss ripped up lest someone trip and fall.

No, it’s safer here. Come, rest your cheek
on my chest. Touch your bruises to mine.
Let others dig graves, pick flowers, chisel
monuments, draft wills, prepare eulogies.
So long as we embrace, passing warmth
between us like breath or fresh bread,
what reason do we have to worry
about the business of life and death?