Eulogy Wind sleeps restlessly underground, sighs between papery layers of sediment and stone, spaces where just enough air can feed the dead. You feed there, listening for the poetry of bones breaking into their separate eternities. As the wordless winds seep through the pores of your soil, you heave one long turn into earth to find poetry in turning, rhythm in spaces left with your falling apart.
Christine Crockett's Questions:
This is a shorter line than usual for me. Does it have a natural flow/break?