Still not over that death


Dead in the desert. Vultures peck you clean
sun-leathered flesh. Mice ants pick off the rest.
White bone a while. A desert wind for jest
drifts sand until there’s no sign you have been.

Sand grinds you into sand. And memory
will know you not. You may provoke a tear
grit under eyelid. And we know some year
last book will burn. Last city fall to sea.

Kismet. But fight it, each hour every day,
scrawl name on monument, leave brass in past.
Curse the erasers. Great words will outlast
piffle and bigotry, or so we pray –

If not eternal, longlived. They would rob
that one small thing, who do the vulture’s job.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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