The Five Felt Way

Why is it the end
Tends to disappear
Into the green guise
Of spring or absinthe
Or whatever good

Looks thin and needy
Enough as it dies
So prematurely
That we who will die
Ourselves salute it?

I don't want to be
Dying all the time.
I don't want to be
Whining, rhyming lines.
I want to be good,

So perfectly good
That when I must die,
Which is to say, go
Ordinarily,
Without a return,

My departing fling
With conning the world
Ends in contentment,
Not yearning come-back,
Not hungry, not ghosts.