Visiting the grave of my childhood mythology.

Visiting the grave of your affection: no longer at the bone

A terminal rise above the head,

there is a flower of stone

Flower-footed a protruding bone

You obituate my direction:

inverted obsession, overt dissection,

as grave robbers grown into dandelions.

The green grass covers the past.

Inside the boxes there is mostly dust,

barely different from the dirt outside,

only more alone.

Except for so much bone,

I would be a jellyfish of skin.

But these are desiccated here,

more like mummy's dried carapaces.

Grow quickly young daffodils.

Attend the living!

The dead can tend themselves.

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