up, up, up, up

At death, life spills out of you
like the pouring of water.

You cough, you groan. Pain brings
you to a breaking point, and then,
a rest. No more physical sensations.

A fisherman has hooked your spirit
and is pulling up, up, up, up,
you pause, back against the ceiling,
to see your body below:
the closed eyelids, the curled fingers.
It is a slump of muscle, bone, skin-
covered with a few clothes.
Not an ounce of desire in the whole mass.

A warm light fills you,
a warm light directs you upward,
you fly, you feel heavenly.