at a turbulent vortices of chance,
a backyard funeral,
shoebox burial
following immediately thereafter

last copies of a body
of work,
so very human
some really bad,
most highly
average
amidst the occasional
how-did-that-one-get-overlooked,
all human, all, time yellowed

some on paper napkins scribbled,
some as typos fired by a Remington,
some lasered, some inkjet sprayed,
all stored on papyrus memory cells,

but all
born,
all common ancestoried
in the dust of
turbulent vortices of chance,
all to the dust of loam and sand,
returned,
returned to sender

my shoebox of poems,
will soon to disappear,
following on and hard by
their author,
who like any poem possessed,
mad, insane, life cycle victims
defying,
nay denying,
the notion of
sustainability