Song of Myself
       

       More animate than ever
       this obit photo:
       a black woman,
       a microphone;
       big bosom swelling
       on the way to exhalation.

       Is that how it is?

       A single, precious commodity
       exchanged 
       again and again?
       Odd at first, 
       but always, precisely,
       even at the end.

       Wind ruffles the paper,
       runs across my shirt,
       pushes against my lips,
       enters me with a promise,
       no, 
       more, 
       a guarantee,
       that short or long,
       this song of myself
       has one lyric left:
       a parting sigh,
       at the very least.
   
       

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