Clods

When I died — a long time ago — I was buried with wolf-fangs and transistor radio. While brain festered in my skull, I pondered negative numbers and the mess I had left: bills, some jottings reminding me to return a phone call from the black side of the sun. To gargle with laundry-detergent, as mezcal is now curated for silk cravats. A day later, I returned on the sly, peeked out the closet.  When I died, they discovered fiction inside shoes I had left behind. The plumbers and auto-mechanics arrived, as they had been contracted weeks earlier. Aquatics, clogged. Sedan leaked ichor and plenty of soft jazz. I thought: enough with rats. Enough with the whiskers that sniff embryos. Supposedly there’s water beneath Mars’ surface. I sat up in my coffin before they could bury me. I was open arms. I declared rivers: Sluggish. Stones gushed freely wherever a mansion stepped inside the camel who found a loophole through the needle’s nostril.