Spirit world

Handfuls of blood on the bike trail over shadows of exhausted limbs.
But not in that order.
House lit up by the darkness around, looking in on a woman who sat stiff in a chair and struggled to move her limbs. What agony in life, the pain the body can bring.
Old woman we visited in the hospital today has died.
Exiting radio show I watched the nearly full moon sitting on my bike frame outside university Art’s Center at the back entrance to a concert where I could hear girls screaming over wildly brilliant drum beats and bass rhythm. I listened to rock instrumental and watched tsunami waves in slow approach toss across the moon then drop from it in ashy mound: when it was time for me to go. When the dying summer air felt like lifting me up. Taking me with it. Sewer hole at my feet surged with water suddenly, the singular noise pulling my face down.

At work this morning nobody listened to each other. I picked out sentences from layered conversations, “I hear the spirit world’s a pretty nice place to be,”
“I’ve never been there,”
“A rare flower blooms by the full moon at midnight,”
“Of the wasted meat some was spared.”

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