Scents of rot are sweet
at first,
syrup-thick and
magnolia-cloying.
They linger, soft
as slime, to stain in
gentle streaks
the sunken fat of this
wrung body.
Just east of Eden
even the dirt smells of
sugar. The flies come
to pick at it. To pick at
my bones. To eat of dust.
There is too little
moisture for maggots--
Still, they try
the awful reproductive
consumption, the
drive that kept me
at these gates
kills them too, so my
body and fly
bodies and the
bodies of other
lost
are mummified
before the lovely mirage.