A purple heart
Pinched
through the skin.
A traffic of ants
In my armpit.
I am dead since tomorrow.
Rising from yeast.
Eat me.
It’s a holiday.
Through it all such sorrow
unless you are real.
Lend me a dollar
with no chance of a payback.
I certainly know what death is:
the absence of nothing.
Whatever you bring up is a miracle.
Be it so.