by Micah Clopton

 

www.capsulamundi.it/en/

Even at age 33, one can think about a burial.

As for me, I’ll be a pod for a tree to grow up into his grave.

Imagine a man, fetal in sac, to feed the world, not after.

But from among his visceral stuff;

Planted like a tree by a stream of Eden.

In due season, these leaves will yield

Familial fruit in the forested midst of my peers.

Ah, to be the buried red pulp of a green olive for the gods!

Seething dryad egg, a living seed, to be the branches

From which to hang a swing, or nest the sparrow:

Branches, to jettison the sunset’s energy.

Sic transit Gloria mundi! Glory container?

Withal desire to be shorn of life’s coverings,

And be born again as a sycamore tree, literally.