There is a time I know will come where I will tear it all to oblivion and I will cut the back out and lay strips of it to smoke over the fire. It will be nothing and I will come. The scent will linger in the room and each breath through the room will renew it, it will linger in the linens and I will lay breathing.


It is a far off echo falling.  It is the bottom of the valley, under the creek.  Decomposition, the end and beginning, the totality of life; it is dirt.  And the wind is strong enough to strip wood, and it howls in every hollow, and it pelts and stings.  Every nerve is touched, and all sense is full, painful and pleasurable.  We mark our alignment with time but not with eternity.  We mark ourselves against that which is fixed.  The sun, the stars, even the moon is where it ought to be.


I can always be forever prone.  I can swing around our star, interrupted secant, silent, until it all implodes.  I can wait and tilt and twirl and give birth to trees and mulch.  I can turn inside out, can come apart, can be a map.  I wait.  I tilt and twirl and hurl meat on the fire to wait.  There is a time I know will come, and I will lay breathing.


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