are not hollow. They birth
your origins in tides of red,
clumps of white and spikes
of platelets.
  To save one life is to save
a planet, a teaming host of
patterns, voices, instincts,
mannerisms passed on from
the dead, never to present
the same again.
  To need is to feel
is to sing.
  Bite of air in the wound
means you still
breathe.

  You want to know the
answer? Sit among
the tombstones, count
what grows, and know
that you’ll give back
everything.
  Pretend, bend, initiate
song before breath
becomes gasping wind,
before worms somersault,
in ecstasy of being,
creating more
by being, just as you
when you’ve fallen too
exhausted to go on.
  Go now, make amends
while language
is spoken.
  Stand as would a
heart if it grew roots
and spindled stories
around caskets
until the rain gets

in, and bones become
soil to feed each exhale
of oxygen we breathe in.