It’s survival
of the fittest, see?
Last one in’s a rotten
egg, a fallen tree.
(Do you hear it?)
We fear it. Draw near it.
Make much of this fading;
the shrinking, the thinking
through the final days.
We will it, distill it
to so many last pages.
Being of
broken body,
sound mind.
All these empty spaces
,
and the things we leave
behind.
::
In April, she poems.
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