but barely

i.

     skimming through
            with the morals
                of a spoon...
                       can't you almost see
                                                     your reflection—the rejected palate
                                of imperfection
                                                            not quite as glaring
                                            as once hoped for.

    i float
              imagining all it might take for my limbs
                     to sink,
                                  the water filling a mold created
                                                                        by this very skin
                                                     holding me together.

ii.

     each ounce of blood
                                      lost
                                             returns to the earth,
              to some dejected landfill, rotting
                                    into the soil of lost time.
      who knows how long it takes
                               for a body in a pine box
                                                     to meet such levels of infection.

iii.

     don't drink the water
                       at the cemetery—
                       at the plots of the past/passed—
                it's got bits of your grandfather,
                                   sucked up from the soil
                                                               you left him in.