Epic

 

After I died, I remembered the jar

of money, big and crammed with leafy

greens, buried in the backyard beside

 

the dog asleep in the sun, a bumblebee

buzzing about her head then

off like a pulse down the inflamed

 

throat of a magnolia blossom.

I crouched in the throat

of the infinite, and my form's spent

 

pocket huddled under the casket's

satin lid, the loose change of my rages

and doldrums floating free

 

in the waves of nothing, learning new

currency. Mourners trod about the lawn,

pinching little plastic cups of wine

 

with plates of lobster salad on romaine

like rhododendron blossoms, women's

heels sinking into the mud, all

 

talking zeros and ones, recombinant

genes, a wadded cocktail napkin

with a smear of lipstick dropped

 

onto the lawn remotely to kiss

the earth goodbye, while time

unclenched and space dug deeper.

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