Saturday apocalypse
muddles down Grafton Road, hanging
off each other, hanging
two minutes too late
outside the only
liquor store
stumbling,
confused,
past a lone girl human
who -- distorted, disregarded -- becomes a
missed meal...
but is hollow, anyway,
from all the ghostly motes
rising up from the earth below her
rising up through the arched cement
riddled with probing tree roots
infiltrating bodies
skeletons
pathways
rising up and up and up, and
levitating through
flesh, and
clinging to flesh's back.
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