Where is that cedar tree that I must lie under,
starved, my eyes resigning to lethargy,
my breath short, its pace slowing to a gentle brush
that my upper lip will eventually stop feeling;
where my limbs will atrophy into painted bones
and the clothes I wear will hang slack like my withered jaws;
where my heart will pound in my chest
less and less, and my wants will wander
away with my breath, and I will see God?