The Grim

A glance to the skies
I used to get lost in:
I’m good at this work,
but it’s fucking exhausting.

I guess everyone dies,
but they’re dropping like flies—
hard and heavy
and monstrous in size.

The families and friends
with their tender amends
and their quivering lips:
the parade never ends.

And the tension won’t lift.

But I will, so I must
usher flesh back to dust.
All so chillingly real—
I feel.  I feel!

I drag and I stack them,
keep dogs from attacking them—
also rodents and birds.

And I do what I can
to gather their words.

But they float and they flutter;
they churn into butter.
In the afternoon air,
some just disappear.

One does and one never does
become another.

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