When I imagine
that I’ve died,
I know exactly
what will be of me,
but what of death
can one envision?
Dark
dirt/
digging
worms,
and the endless mumblings
of lawnmowers over my ceiling
or the moaning of Sunday morning’s
mourning,
or pissed against the wind
and left to sit adrift
an ocean of whale carcasses
and swimmers’ urine,
I wish that you just don’t burn
my paper skin.
No comments:
Post a Comment