She stood at the edge of the world,
Dressed in a simple pale nightgown,
With strong dry winds sucking
The moisture out of her dulcet lips.
She thought of Kerouac, and Ginsberg,
Of Dostoevsky, Poe, and Lovecraft.
She thought of Bird, and Diz,
Of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart.
Falling into a pool of cosmic dust,
Her lungs filled with dark matter,
Like an angel would fall from the depth of heaven.
In the vivid hours of a translucent night;
They covered her body with old newspapers,
And passers peered for mere moments,
Then went back to their places in a rusty machine.