Memories of dead friends wake me,
As radio
speaks of
Lunar
lithium mining,
And election
of fascists.
So, I’m glad
that my dead friends
Do not have to hear
What’s happening now.
The only place to go
Is down the garden path
To the compost heap
To forking stick
A forking fork in it
And turn over rotting death,
To more quickly start new life.
There I find fat fat earthworms,
Greedily assisting me
In a slimy segmented way.
Some must be reincarnated parts of
The great poet Emile Sercombe,
And the great ecological arguer
Brian Orr,
Reminding me that
I too must shed my gross corpse
And embark on a worm assisted voyage
To another life,
In a richer compost heap,
On a healed planet.
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