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?