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Song of the Suicide

The compost brings growth to the garden. Every rotting body
drags itself into the earth.

Cremation is for those afraid of their flesh falling to ribbons,
streaming through hairy grass,

a festival for the end of the day. The sun gives itself over to storms
to imagine the scoured face revealed

when the rain ends and, heat-kissed, the world steams into newness.
Rawness. Salt of the earth where nothing grows...

Romance

If it became apparent that the world was about to end
some un-deflectable comet slung our way
from who knows where
or rising waters that won’t subside

I would make my way to where you live
and we would run off somewhere quiet
to see out the last day
together...

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