Goodby Betty,Don'T Remember Me

My hands spade the shovel - spay the rooted grave. Earth is impassive. Why won’t life relent? The silver blades south for the black plastic bag swallowed by west winds, wrapped in a blanket that is olive green. Under the sun’s harrowing husk I peel away the last bit of crust yet unpeeled. Pink scab, raw, refusing to heal. Dusk is dawn, hushed - the garden takes back what the plate glass revealed. There is no breeze now as I sit down to write in my black plastic chair once taken from me by a black plastic bag. No peaceful leaves blow as I swallow remains of what remains of night while the lumbering bough climbs down from a tree and sees through the window a fragmented shadow.