Tuesday, August 30, 2016

i think of the afterlife
of dad's money.
i think of how solid he seemed,
built hard, of money.
i think of his remains, money,
snug in his third wife's bank, his bone dust clouds long ago leached, 
into groundwater,
roots and natural gas. 
think of the particulate rising
of his remains,
flowing up,
his third wife's hands.  

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