Time becomes a butterfly with a broken wing
humming in my hands; like it, I have been
subdividing myself, dotting my poems with
the blood beading on my cuticles, my mind as
the land left on its own, riding out the cold.

This is our hard stone over downy pillow,
the mint on our palms we smack
just to smell life again. One day I will
become the fish feed, you will be a worm
growing drunk on death, and the dog

will order a tank, a bag and a hose because 
he can’t stand not being with us anymore. He, 
like you and me, is ready to be frozen into 
the future. Put on your sunglasses. After all,
I invented them for our funeral.


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