His deathbed
was somewhere between
inch plate and a stolen sand,
not yet aware of his predicament
his internals bathed
in the hot hot sun,
they will send some of him
home, the rest will be walked on
or eaten. See the world they said,
no mention of becoming part of it
to my recall.
somewhere back home
between Maine and Arizona
a flag is dropped,
somehow…
it didn’t seem enough.
BG
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem