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Some comfort for those already in their graves: I’ll bring news, as much as I can remember.


When laid low I use what little breath to dig a hole. My subconscious hedges, carving contingency steps into the walls of the holes that I backfill when vital signs improve.


Of apparent immortals who think you’ll dodge the holes, I ask you to gather up compelling news, because the dead will ask.


I may be holed up before you, but it’s a long time, turning into grass. It’s forever, to be frank. 


No one worries they’ll show up late for Forever.





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T o d d   M e r c e r















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