in this smooth and flimsy world
as a tracing paper
our corpses roll along
cloddishly
until they collapse
in heaven’s sludge
and some of them leave traces
that even demons worship
in cavalcades of prayers
the gods keep their fingers crossed
for their not-habitation
in a Milky Way’s stall
either they have room nowhere
or we don’t have a clue
about how
and why
death inhabits them
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