There is a process that nobody
but you can execute, fingering your way
wrapping your loose ends
in the tendrils of my exiting
conscience.
Tell me the steps to breaking
apart an atom.
Explain love
on a molecular level.
Somehow we have managed
to inhabit the same several seconds of space.
The tomb is built from iron
and etched with the trailing toes
of the trapeze swingers that leap
from my mind to yours.
They will say
at the funeral
there is a process that nobody
but you can execute.
They will cast you in gold and let you
warm your hands in the sun
in the uppermost corner of the park
where you liked to smoke your cigarettes.
Meanwhile, what slivers they can collect
of my transcripts and molars,
my crooked bones
will be scattered in the garden at your feet
becoming even smaller.
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