In
a
dream
a
voice
said:
you
don't
mind
dying
any more,
do
you.
What
would
death
be
like,
not
to
be?
The
little
room
where
U.G. died
still
haunts
me
everyday,
the
dying
lady poet
so
grateful
when
I
told
her
she
could
let
go.
What
is
this
life
anyway
if
not
a
dying
process.
We
live
so
long,
we
forget
and
think
that
it
will
never
come
to
an
end
all
the
petty
grievances,
yet
someday
it
will
all
be
over
and
there
is
a
kind
of
comfort
in
this.
We
don't
have
to do
it
forever and ever.
Calm,
he
was
those
last
eight
days,
at
the
back
of
my
mind
-- Hintergedanke
always
that
tiny
thought
U.G.
U.G.
U.G.
All
I
know
is
that
there
is
nowhere
to
go
except
in
that
room,
U.G.
on
the
couch
and
the
three
of
us
and
that
room,
always
in
the
midst
of
whatever
is
happening,
will
never
go
away
and
my
heart
tells
me,
speaking
from
that
room:
wait
there
is
more.