Suffocating within buried walls.
Don’t understand what has happened…
roads choked, towers broken, 
the gates stuffed tight with sand.
No one apparently gets into or out of 
the city that is my body:
the alleys of miserable contention,
the boulevards where I sold myself,
the buildings of candied mistakes,
the rare gardens, the more common weedlots;
here is the buried city that is my body
barely noticeable to those who might seek it;
they say “He used to be bigger, didn’t he? 
He used to have detail, used to be something.” 
Now I’m a burial mound, maybe there are artifacts,
maybe not, but nowadays who has time to dig?
I’d like to poke an arm out and scream, ‘When
did I get so weak and old that I can’t dig out?’
I think I’m going to sleep now, eyes full,
not a scratch on me but dead just the same.” 
In the city the streets are finally quiet.  A child
running for a minute longer, perhaps — then, nothing.