The body dies
 
little by little
 
the body buries itself
 
joins itself
to the loosened mind, to the black–
berries and thistles, running in a
thorny wind
over the shallow
foundations of our former houses,
dim hollows now in the sandy soil
 
Did I spend all those years
building up this edifice
my composite
self, this crumbling hovel?
 
My arms, my eyes, my grieving
words, my disintegrated children
 
Everywhere I walk, along
the overgrowing paths, my skirt
tugged at by the spreading briers
 
they catch at my heels with their fingers

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