today i lie by a gossamer stream
and steep myself in soaking sod
i sweat my limbs out and over this
grass, and wave and rock and root
though there was a moment there
(in the early morning of my life)
when the burgeoning gloom
concealed from me all possibility
of pressing out and past the confines
of a striated and sinewy ego’s cage

then one day my breastbone cracked and
my ribs wrenched open with my innards
displayed for vultures to peck and claw
i watched helplessly or disinterestedly
sun on my spleen and spine and let the
maggots and the coyotes meal and mosey
making of me effluent and mud while the
swine wallowed in my filth before slaughter

won’t you take a piece of me before i leave?
i don’t need all eight carpals for what’s ahead
i'd nick the femoral for you to draught and sup
if it would nourish you to drink or eat from me
they say after death we become matter for the
mycelia or perhaps that we are made of stars
i say stick close to your lively kin and ask what
gift you are to me or me to you this blesséd day

i set myself aloft and diffuse into the air 
i am breathed alike by holy and damned
 i lift beneath and between a red-ochre sky 
will you join me here? take stock with me 
count on fingers and toes but don’t dare 
make twenty the meager sum of your life 
there are infinities beyond enumerating  as
herr cantor proved, so kindly turn to face 
the beckoning elysium onto which we all 
inevitably inexorably impossibly pass