I live underground-
with fiendish hands
that reach through
the dirt and mass
grasping at a sound.

To their mile-wide glance
of white wall eyes
my lungs collapse
crumble and fold-
taken in and out of sight.

Through earthly glass
I am a broken con artist
my cries a faux pas
my skin off-brand
while somewhere
a heart beats embodied.

Amidst
this push-pull throng
speaks a long goodbye
to dead space,
bearing dead weight
down on the world-

Commodify my breath.
Call me sanctioned off.
Ship me to the doorstep
of a funeral home
where I can be buried again
in my fever-hot coffin.
One would call it a soul
forever dropping in-
from the other side.