Poem 17

I am not truly aware as he covers me with sand.

I am just a body. I remotely see. I don’t feel.

Grains slip, a fine miat flowing softly.

Some on what was my eye. Some on the material wrapped tight.

But he does only a handful, another. He stops.

His hands over his face. He cries.

Strange little man. None cried for me in life. Now his tears flow. Beyond.

They would coat the desert but the desert is too vast.

No sound here. No coyote. No wind. No human.

Just a body and a man lost in the waves of soft erasure.

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