I can smell the sweat that clings to my cotton death.
they have already left for home.

shovel on another layer of debt and debris on top of my swollen body.
the coffee kept me alive to dig out of my grave, and here I am.
 
I can smell the air that ran through our lungs when we were children.

an hour behind,
and the funeral service isn't ending,
pick up the black masks,
as we march out of here in tens.
this body is not dead.
this body is not dead.

we watched the sunset reflected in the marble of the tombstones,
let's dig him up,  let's get him clean
he walks among the living again

and I left my tears at the gate of the cemetery, these years climb off my back like weights we never knew we carried for so long.

through years and windowpanes that gather dust, mattresses given up for caskets, intravenous memories that leaked onto the floor

I smell the sweat that clings to my cotton death.
I am going to take it home.