28 (your name is Slim, slim)



I am more gaunt than my slender zero,

counted not ghost among the living doomed.

Who but you?  Jackdaw, rover, sister?


Slender sickness, me, and we rotting meat.

Flyer, no flies, from Bangkok, Germany,

or here, where the lies are collected,


hovering at the curbs in white July,

flittering former addresses, texted.


Do you miss the old town, the frozen sleet,

the small white car and bridge on the river?

Your old furniture and organized grooms?


Elysium fields.  But not gull, not crow.

    Prey above, little sister, or below?

 


originally published in the Coffin Factory

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