Breadcrumb #129


Consider that right now
beneath a sycamore,

a trace of you
is drifting from the cracks
of an abandoned
cigar box.

As you sleep soundly
clear across the eastern

a stranger
with a rusted spade 

is reaching down
to brush the earth
that has been weighing
upon its wooden lid  
these nights.

Now he lifts this
muddy capsule, 

he peels back its seal
ever so gingerly,

and the universe
reclaims the air
that sits inside.

This is how
you come to awaken
whole and weightless,

how when you raise
your eyes towards
the morning sky 

up floats
a peace sign pendant;

your first forty-five;

an ink well;

a perfectly preserved set
of words and beliefs;

the self you buried, 

and free.

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