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by Ed Bennett

Bury me in the desert
where time is not
nor roads, nor potted trees
nor any human handiwork
in the mountain dust
with the wind to carry
the nocturnal keen
from coyotes to walking spirits.
Bury me
naked and alone
with no stone but
the scoured mountains
where the Old Ones prayed,
and we transgressed
with a nationís piety
driving over them;
my final atonement,
this cascade of my body
to itís elements,
I will feed the dust
while a desert squirrel
salutes my rest
with a new found piŮon.


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