Still flagrant in the microscopic world:
Dust from his boots lies quietly in the streets
His sweat and tears having seeped into,
Enriched, the very dirt
Soil of his soul
Into furniture, bedding and handkerchiefs
His tools, cars, and books:
Fossilized cells from his past existence.

He was an orphan; only child; forgotten son
Always had to work for his food
They couldn't even afford to feed this single nephew
In the Depression, unless he could work for his bread
He said, at harvest time, they all wanted him;
The rest of the time, nobody wanted him.
I think that he always secretly wondered, if he was worth loving,
Beyond what he could do for someone else.
A deep solitude rested inside of him, an unquenchable loneliness,
Which he must simply have made peace with, in the end.

Moisture from his cremated remains dispersed in every direction
A residue of ash to coat the crematorium surfaces, and it was done.
There might even have been more of him left over
Than there was before; a thin quarkish layer
Scattered by movement and time
An unexpected fishes and loaves tally, of electrons gone mad
But if you look, if you search, there is no sign left.
You have to know the passwords, the symbology,
The secret reservoirs and collection altars
They are there; relics of cast off skin and eyelashes
Petrified nail trimmings, beard shavings
Fallen to the foundation beneath
They clamor for recognition;
I feel the invisible tugging whenever I go near-
Even a mile distant, I can sense it
No charm or icon can shield against that:
The spurned molecules left behind
Are more alone now than ever.

by Patti Masterman

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