Here's one:
Incurable
death out there grows steadily more clear.
The dogged feet go on to
an inexorable détente.
Hope is a little fire
that flickers with uncertain light
beneath a boundless sky.
And I beside it drift
through night and day between
the peace of stone-deep rest
and aching wakefulness.
You can more find of Bascom's death poems on Docs-Google.
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