Breadcrumb #629

WIL WILLIAMS

and maybe whenever the dirt takes me it will
be now: lying down in the grass, my skin will
be the dried out parchment of aspens in autumn,
float feckless, like embers, and my bones will
be pulled down and down into the soil, will
turn ribcage into rodent home, will
turn skull into warren, will
turn hair to nest and turn lung to blanket.

I am better here. I'm better.

and maybe you'll be here too, someday--
not someday soon,
but maybe, someday.

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