9-1-15
Every time I take my mortality in my hands
and let it go like shards of chert
I breathe out someone else’s dust
or ash, or vapor.
Tilted up in a vortex where I kept it,
lungs are an hourglass.
But today it rained
and the tops of puddles are a wrinkled crepe.
Drove into the valley, also folded
each layer a kink of memory,
each fold a repository for sediment.
There I can set free
the pieces I’m not sure if I will miss.
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