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Alive & Writhing.

Kill me. They carry
me out the back
of a small church,

laid out
on a sheet, down
the steps
through the high grasslands
to the hole

those two dedicated men
in the puffy white shirts
have been digging
for me, watch

as I stare back up
at you with my wide,
dead eyes as they shovel
soil onto me.

So distracting.

Even so,
I know, I catch your eyes:
you can see me stuck
in here,

alive and writhing,

hopelessly attached
to this stubbornly
unresponsive form.

I can’t be dead.
I know it.

Father: help me.
Here I am. Not in heaven,
nor in hell, for I am present,

alive, existing
in the here and now:

my premature funeral.

Won’t you save me?
Won’t you save me?

(I don’t know how.
And it’s killing me.)


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