like this, perhaps we go

I beg
your pardon, the man
says,
leaving
the store, rubbing shoulder
against
your shoulder.
excuse me, he says,
tipping his hat
nodding
as he goes by.
he takes your hand,
your soul
with a gentle pull
into the darkness,
or is it light?
so strange it is to
know so little
as to how
or when you die.
like this, perhaps,
we go.