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.

 

 

 

 

r h p   h o m e

 

 

T o d d   M e r c e r


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