The wind is leaving through

the leavings,

through the cut sprig in your hand

the pressed daffodil seedling

a single feather in bush.

Light a match,

burn them together:

scent is the most bio-degradable

sense; they entangle there

like roots, sugar and weeds in the loam.

They are all a part of you— I go

by they/them— in part— for their/the air’s sake. When

you finally stop, gut biome

taking over, a perfect revolution, your rib cage springs

apart: a whole

daffodil, minah bird and rosemary brush

bursting open, new. That will be

your body, more

extra than embalming

fluid.