Death by thirst


All flowers held their heads
to me in thirst, their death was
something I could call mine.
Sifted blue pollen through
shrinking lungs, the branches
of vertebrae straining old
brown marrow, air seeping out
in short arterial pulses, upwards,
only harder by degrees.

Sleep was my last work,
that of flat red fields
abandoned to the wind,
colonised by black ants
that gather together
for the final hour, treading
on that perfect season
which separated days.



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