Kiss me as the dead have kissed you
your cheeks, the backs of your hands
the bellies of the crows you love so much.
Where they find openings the dead bury markers
a knotted snakeskin, a bloody dewclaw
a freckled hollowed cicada shell.
I wonder if the dead recognize the change in seasons
how the shifting sun and wind move them
if mud is a question or an answer.
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