If you are dead

In the passing of the train,
all the voices of your lovers.

No one will gather
the footprints.
No one will remark on billboards,
& no one will be there to take you
to the elephant room and back,

no one will gather…
& the rain will fall on the heads
of balding African men
who love you in reverse,
and talked of descent
when they meant ‘the end’.
The geometric lathe
Of their tongues.
November rain will fall on soil
like it always has.

All the marmots and voles that have died
under your feet
will come back from the ground
and carry your body home.
They will look at your browser history
And find nothing of home.

Your mother will call,
& the phone will not ring.

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Poetics

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