hush

The dead,
worth less
their weight
in rasping whispers,

Speak,

but more when
unnoticed and
unmentioned, wrap in
their mister’s

Spokes.

Their heave and balance on the
way
defies physics –
a spiritual mystery,

a cosmic irony –

amoebas

consume ahead
beyond their plasma,
mouths and loins too full of lovers
to sing “Pioneers!”
to protesting food
somewhere
in my own gut.