To speak of things intangible as wind,
A stung roach slumbers like a sleeping roach,
Although it is only dreaming jeweled
Wasp venom at the controls of its brain.
It is not what we learned but what we lived
That we forget. The world collects our breath.
The words burrow into what’s left of us,
Our blood, our organs, finally our nerves.
Still, we lie quietly, dreaming quiet,
Grooming ourselves compulsively as we
Disappear, becoming the bodies fed
On our decomposition, these phrases.
The emerald wasps of thought, more elegant
Than our dun flesh, justify all the rest.
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