These dead again and again
follow behind as the goodbyes
that never leave home, overgrown

till they gag in what passes for dirt
asking for a blanket or snow
—what you spit on the ground

is the melt, making room inside
where there was none before
and each breath further away

though you can hear your teeth
grinding down the word for we
when there was nothing else.

Photo by Brett Sayles from Pexels