We’ll never make it
to the end. Forget

James Bond and
Star Wars and

anything trying
to be forever. Scry

the stars to find
the finite. Indeed,

we could count
each one and one

day be complete,
ready for the next

distraction—the next
forever, smashed

into fathomable bits.
Keep my watch

in a drawer next
to the latest big

bang—their schemes
a cyclic reminder

that infinite and finite
are twins dissecting

each other on the wing
of a pitching jetliner.

Laugh with me as I
wait to board my plane

to Taos. Share recycled
air with me. And if

my joke of sifting
Sangre de Cristo

wreckage is too much
for a punchline, promise

you’ll consider me wearily
driving the rental car

and drifting
across the double

yellow. Please don’t tell
me you’d be devastated.

Please don’t make me
promise not to die.

– Robert Murdock