SCATTERING.
We trickled the grey dust
knuckled with buckles of sharp
bone into the fist of the hole. Stole
sidelong glances at the atoms of it
escaping into the mountain breeze.
Watched it: a flock of small ghosts
pacing like hosts of ganged starlings;
the pockets of dry air it stung through.
The earth of the twm swallowed
it; stole the dust and the diamonds
of bone. Something will come
of it: grass will absorb it and
grow. Snow will anchor it to a tomb.
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