The En

— Nick Butterfield

The end when it comes

I’ll let go of my bones

&Call into work dead.

Then call the florist

And tell them to plant

Some seeds under rocks

And in the hills and text

The sun and say I’m On

my way,

then crinkle all the letters

I meant to Write.

I’ll treat

Death like it was my

favorite pet

Tickling behind its ears

and looking

Deeply into it’s eyes

beside a fire

Somewhere in the past, a

past

I can’t quite remember.

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