Biohazard

my poems swirl about with dust­dev­il bal­ance
the lack mid­dling begin­nings and ane­mic end­ings

they should be sealed in a plas­tic bag
with a great orange seal
and incin­er­at­ed

i’ll clothe myself with sack­cloth
and rub their ash­es into my hair

per­haps, then i won’t be too near to hear
the breath of their whis­pers