Spare ribs
Bones surrounded by masses of lipids and regrets
Bones still sharp enough to cut

Flossy mold-grass thriving
Lone parts randomly dispersed
Like an automobile after a collision.
But I tell you, no one was driving.
No one’s in control within this wheel

Smoke rising in air,
A habit never practiced,
but time’s appropriation says yes.
I let forth a bellow
It’s the closest thing to a prayer
I can fathom these days.

Dead bodies and
An observatory a little over five feet above.
Hands clutched around clichés and gardening utensils
Waiting for the last breath that occurred long ago

Buck teeth
Laced-up with fly wings,
Bones still sharp enough to cut