I bend close to the earth
smelling dark dirt, cold and old.
A wind is pushing me to hunt
in other places. To Follow
the scent of the dead into our past.
I am surrounded by blurred black
and white photos fluttering on
tombstones. Photos of smiling,
laughing, in places; pieces of me,
where I have been, with them.
I send them all away, my
magical arm scattering
them. Now, I want to
wear them, as a dress
of photos against my skin.
I see them migrating
inside of me, molecules against
organs, rubbing their black ink
across my muscle of a heart
in a smear of black and blood.
And the the wind climbs,
swirling above me, a spiral
of dirt and leaves, trying to
find form, as I keep trying to do
with the dead.
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