As loved ones buried

grow nails and hair

past recognition,


a fistful of peelings

thrown slovenly to earth

came back in Spring,


leaving me to finger,

stunned as Crusoe,

a row of cold knuckles.


One, forgotten in the cellar,

turned pure alone

and grew a halo of white hair;


another, missed in the sack,

was lifted out

the shrunken head of Medusa.


When I kick the bucket,

bury me with spuds,

a sackful,


that I may spread

and come in a cloud of white

to your door.


🌷 (2)

◄ power company

your-hope ►


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