Valediction

Whisper of gray
flesh. Ventilator bleeding

plastic air. Sliver of sun
through wooden window slats.

I am the needle—

the weeping blood on bone—
the ripple of pulse and breath

on spiraling wax paper.
I carry you

like butterfly wings; like phantom
threads of milkweed silk

slack against the threshing
floor,

eager for the spinning thatch,
and cloud shift.

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