on the trail by the canal, with horseflies buzzing,
turtles sunning, and the grasses growing green as…oatmeal  
the white sun has bleached, not blessed this place  

who would want to walk with me in this wild world  
who would take my gritty hand in theirs to speak
of painted pastures and trees rich with fruit, when
all around there is the stolid stench of death, a demise that requires  
no witness, no silent prayers, or tears dropping from forlorn faces  

for I am here alone,
making fading  footprints, speaking to no one  
asking no one to walk with me, as I slowly become the grass,  
and no longer swat the flies from my bowed back