After unpinning me from the wall, head, heart, knees, feet,
The left behind nail holes make a constellation of me.
Under whose sky I walk out.
Buzzards with their cogged wing tips gear their way
In lazy circles over me;
The stench of my mortality rising into the air.
Even after the sky has been overwhelmed
With your lights and your smog;
Even after you have retold over and over again
The myth of my creation,
I still look down and ponder how it is
That I have been forgotten, but cannot forget.
Bill Matthews lives, writes, thinks and works in New Jersey.
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