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.