by Micah Clopton
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.