Now I know what you’re afraid of: 
you're afraid of the if it's as ifs: 
stylus still in the groove, 
your album spins to its scratchy finish; 
or if it’s as if someone hits the switch 
and the lights simply go out.

Or if it’s the liminal way waves fade 
into sand, where both both begin 
and end in restless metamorphoses.

Since this exigent flesh survived,
continuing on as a kind of keenness
chased by consciousness, I can say
I’ve seen what it means to die.

So I can offer some consolation:
can say, it’s as if the finches were here,
then the finches left, only to arrive 
elsewhere: it’s as if a thought constantly
recurring suddenly silences.
It's the same as the sense of time’s absence—
you, being always going to.

Tell me, what are you afraid of, after all?
After all, we’ve bled into 
each other like wayward watercolors—
I shape your expression; 
you create my countenance.

If it’s as if a door blows closed,
you’ll jump at the absence of agency;
there’s the cliché sunset to consider--
seasons, sleep, or all the mystic et ceteras.

But it was mere quietness, as if 
a sourceless, soundless voice sang 
of the promise of Avalon with a shrug. . .

So maybe I can say in the same way, 
There’s nothing to be afraid of.