fingers
                (they grow—damp
but not ripe)
  
         (damp)
the world leans into—flesh sways
           like chimes inside rotten skin

–hisscrack—snap!  
                        one
finger,      *******
falling           silent
beneath

                        murmur
            of the trench (deep    and wet
     in its hunger)                                                          ­              
            (flesh like flaking bread)
the fingers think about the soft ground
and wish they were    as light
                                as they
were not

if only it were not so
            slow

            left with—
                                the ache—   the hollow
where fingers once
     felt
        the grip of a rifle
                           (now forgotten)
       as they slowly,
    listlessly drop        
    towards the hungry earth

i
                am
      still here
    if only i can touch
                           the dirt  
            with    nubs that will never
            rise  
            up against
                   the gray

—drip
                           drip
        of life from
         where my
                (left) hand
should
                 hold a fist

but it is just
                       bone  
                             and bone
growing brittle
until the
                          whisper  
                         reaches to  
                           speak louder than silence
     and

                                       then

there is nothing
     but the hole inside
me left
              to remember me.