You are dead.

I mean, you died.
You're particles.
And finally.
He is

afterall

the only rabbit I'd thought to follow.

Under bushes through
bramble

Whatever bramble is

leads
to the trenches.

She's creaking
without your use. Leaking
from the elbows. Needs
a good greasing. To get up

to look through the window.
You are still and always

in a small pouch. Enclosed
in plastic, then velvet.
Couched in the console.




(what i probably would write now if asked instead of what i wrote then, presented, me in black yoga pants and an orange wrap top. to a funeral?)

funereal.