Upon Waking (With Vultures)

Each morning a committee of vultures

gathers on the old road that leads to town.

Each morning you try to remember atoms

are majorities of space, as with the iron

fence surrounding that one grave. Although

parts are real enough: a crystal frame

gifted for a wedding photograph from 1965;

a bespoke plush toy fox whose hand-stitched

“x” for a butthole still makes for a laugh;

a gold band inscribed inside with forever

now living beneath a banker’s lamp, waiting

on copper cobblestones of customary change.

And every afternoon you drive yourself

down the country road that leads to town

and every afternoon a kettle of vultures

hangs high in the air above the bend before

the hideaway. And as the sun goes down,

you have to remind yourself you didn’t feel

her flesh first thing upon waking, her sweat.

Nothing touches you. You feel electromagnetic

forces, negatively charged electrons, not lips

smiling, a nose nudging you awake. Some

forevers are shorter than some. But the end

is a wake of vultures, who hop around one more

dumb, split-open armadillo, winged shadow portals

dancing around each other to find a soft way in.