Dying In The Garden

Dying In The Garden

Let’s die in the garden
So they don’t have to move us
We would make good nitrogen
In the gross plane of consciousness anyway
And might someday become
The human ash
That streams through the veins
Of fresh ripe tomato steaks
On toast with mayonnaise
In the endless summer
With salt and pepper
And perhaps a quiet pilsner
And a holy ghost?

…and as many as you like?

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