It might pay to remember
you are shaking the hand of
someone whose afterlife
imagines you on fire
through their fleshed out forevers.
You may be wise to consider
who you hand your fate,
this pittance, this long haul.
Hungry as the horse is held,
your life the ashes in
the garden, the dead cold crunch
beneath their boots. You carry
them from round to round,
propping them up in the clench.
The ones who only see your smile
in numbers of dead teeth.
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