when we all up and vanish at last
       

may our abandoned chickens
inherit the city,

and the hedges rise up,
and the money sigh,

and our scents
lift away from things

slowly like souls ,—

souls the seagulls disrupt
in their mad rejoicing

as b elow them the bears
begin to unearth

all we loved and buried
o those rare and opulent years.

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Copyright © 2015 Andrew Michael Roberts All rights reserved
from Good Beast
Burnside Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission