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Lying in the long dark, insomniac,
I see it clearly: sea and beach and air
And a red winter sun, down low, for fi re,
For the fourth element made out by the Greek
On Sicily's coast two dozen centuries back --
Fire that'll turn me into atmosphere
After I'm dead, and ashes tossed out where
Maybe they'll wash ashore. I hear gulls creak,
And put my being in with the elements
We share with the whole show, rather than
With the odd creature in it that is man
Or with my self, still odder ... till the tense
Weavings of wakefulness begin to fray
Loosen and come apart and fl oat away --