Groundskeeper CemeteryWill Grofic
Doves of clumped soil are really pigeons (let me wait for crumbs like they do). This is not another life, no vaulted space, shoveling the unglued (about Volte-face). This vaulted touch of nursing home smell (month-old maple syrup will reverse me). The coffin lovers watch me with envy, valleys will prevail here (if I honor the twinkle in their eyes). I rise and doubleback, like a cautious diver (dirt crumbles in my hair), my feet feel the wind like winter trees. Pigeons crowd my feet (I cannot move).
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