Though of old scars be wary
the dead, I know them; I’ve sniffed dirt fumes through rain —
I’ve told you this before, they’re like tongues slipped across
lips not allowed to open, but listen, listen:
they’re busy enough now with molds’ pastels
and the patient longing of worms whose promises are always kept.
Listen, I’ve walked the ground,
bare feet across generations,
eons, of insect exoskeletons, flora.
I know them, the dirt,
its everlasting hunger.
Its myriads parade to work
and the dead become our food again,
but of old scars unreturned,
be wary of forever.
Take care when you swallow these.
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