Come fall I like to sprinkle
a little bone-meal
on my neck and shoulders
rub a little iron on
my chest and thighs
to calm the sulphurous clouds
built up by summer’s
torrid waking-dreams
I am the world
the world c’est moi
and yes I can still see
you’re dying O earth
of your own kind of AIDS
and yes that I must
someday somehow
go on without you.
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