several years later, they unwrapped the hollow when they forgot how to read the patients form but found only, etched into the edges of the chasm walls of maize and paper cranes and the soft siren call of the ringing truck
\
so skid on the mud of last winters drought the windfall is better the bigger your pouch
or, cull your tinnitus' ambiguous haze on your conjured posterities marionette gaze
mix up a stew in a broken egg's shell and say your child's the same as always you knew ( always knew )
and then
wait watch see?
as the frosted lanterns sing the harbor dry /
but who am I to judge all boarded windows and gusts
i who you where us we,
- till just-
follow on down into that absent labyrinthine corpse,
crawl on down into soft mist and dirt
speak the air
and breathe
. . . . .
heidegger famously recommended to better grasp our being, we should aim to spend more time in graveyards but really, that's such a nineteen-hundreds privilege speaking,
who the hell these days could afford an epitaph? a plot of land?
if *we* wanted to see ourselves we'd have to look to cold ashes