Mexico
Right next to the plateau,
below where the Rio Laja sifts
through both cliff and horse trails,
the arch of my walk ends,
so maybe this drop will take me,
the wind as its minion, the hatchet man,
maybe my heart
becomes embedded in the bark,
angel, oak and old,
my beard as the aging branch.
I will live in the crux of the tree,
dead home self,
the sparkle of flower,
maybe pear color perfect.
I am those seeds shining in spring.
My ribs easily slide out
and go sun polished,
newborn burl of bling,
my skull a concentric diamond
that starts at the center and pushes
outward to the edge,
as it pours into the river valley below –
a beautiful ending.
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