T h e S e x t o n W i t h t h e L u n g I n f e c t i o n s
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.