Bodies in Control

Our bodies are graves that we're digging,
Our flesh, coffins we live in,
rots and sloughs off.
It spreads, gangrenous, infecting every bit of us.
Yeah, everything that's us abandons love
to draw closer and closer to a headstone above
that soon, too, will crumble to dust.
Clay pots, fragile like glass lamps blown,
packaged, shipped and drove cross-country
installed and broken, illuminating nothing,
just hands on thighs and eyes on
nickels and dimes, and all things Spring
cast aside as if there were no autumn
as if nothing at all dies
when for most of us that's the meaning of life.
Live. Die. Live. Die. Live. Die.
Dig a whole hole and lie down there alone.
It's your only hope to hold
if your body is your control.
Let go.
Close your eyes.
Clasp your hands.
Lie.
Elope.
Your groom is waiting by the phone.