The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
i bury myself in beach sand
begging the tide to come in
this is cleaner than a funeral
no open grave for grieving
relatives to fall into
not need to rent a backhoe
no need for mourners at all
the sea provides the tears
the waves–sobs
the wind–sighs of loneliness
the gulls–shrieks and laughter
i have nothing
left to lift
not my hands
not my eyes
nor raise my ire
peace is all
overwhelming
turgidity
slowness that is stillness
unmoving like summer rain
or heavy syrup
heavy as the earth
beneath my feet
i shed my skin
one last time
with no intent
of emerging clad
in a new glistening
sheath
