This was going to be a post for tomorrow on DxBxPx, but it’s too good to waste over there where no one will see it. I wrote this this evening.

I am fresh of the graveless waterfront
as a groundkeeper for this beach,
at least till I am swallowed by the moon.

I am freshly alive with life not my own,
with maggots that spill from eyesockets
and insects burrowing, jaw to bone.

But I am a fresh convert to the process:
yesterday I was born a ghost,
and today I till and furrow for the flies.

I am fresh, also, of a thousand places
all equally regal, all flushed with life,
all carefully tended;

these freshly cultivated twin sisters and brothers -
I have become a thousand teeming islands,
a million writhing worlds,

a universe freshly strewn with self-consuming stars.
Here, you will grow your corn.
You will press its flesh between your teeth,
and it will not taste like disaster.

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