sometimes I feel threadbare
we bury our dead there
lay down your head where
under weeping willow
taking a makeshift pillow
we come to rest

there is a stone in my chest
there is a cocoon in my mouth
and there’s salt in my hands
to remind the stigmata
these soft foreign lands
apres moi de deluge, the drowth
and i feel momentum arrest

are you sad to see the flowers bloom?
rising like a ghost in the tomb
some kind of shady after-womb
cat’s cradle on a dreaming loom

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