Book of Gaigemon V

I found a better digging ground, says the boy with beaks
in his hand, a shovel—leftover bodies quiver beside
him—an alter of sorts for the dead, birds caught–
mouths open wide. See the earth, he says, it speaks
to me. All the living have gone. What am I doing here
then? I ask. The boy hums hymns of dirt for the ritual.
We mix their blood with loam, he says, help me. Feel
the warmth of their wings. I think I’m the way home.

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