I must revise my work with the past,take my time, without malice.So far I have spread my past, quite well I’d say,over men and aunties,and was convinced that I would heal from itonce they were deadand decomposed,my ribs a broomand my hands a canvas.And especially after I give a lessonon the imperishable landand baby chicks that fall out of their nestsjust before a crow eats them.I must revise my work with the past,my many loveswho died and still possess their corpses,but also those who diedwithout declarable bodies.I will inform them that I distributed the same poemto each of them, though I didn’t necessarilylove them, a point I have previously explained,that I like to explain againas I redistribute poems.I will tell them about your corpsesprayed with chlorinein a plastic bagand how we return.It wasn’t fair that you diedwithout a last scribblein which you challenge something,anything, so that we can say“He finished his final painting,didn’t leave it suspended in our throats.”Whenever there’s a going, there’s no return.They’re distributing plastic bags to the masses,spraying chlorine through massive pumps.We’re carrying our soulsright under our shoulders.