two thousand years ago
with my bare eye i encountered
a Mars of spore & dry grass. but
here mildew permeates my routine. i
spray the killer, spray & shine &
behold! a circumstantial vacuum
concedes my sins & perfect
absence feels so near. now
look below: i, the tollund
man, am buried here and my
grimace forewarns of a particular
home-video-grief. now am I
speaking to a grandfather or
some artificial intelligence? this
is now a lesson in my perfect
preservation: my parasite-infested bowels
opened to your country’s scientists as
they dissect and examine me
and ask what i was fed before i was hanged
and ask how i have rested here so peacefully with a grimace on my face
and ask what the pH temperature oxygens levels were
and ask why the stories are of revelations from above
and ask why revelations are in fact from below
and ask when the soil will retain the color of hemo-dynamism spilt raw
and ask what an austere environment is
and ask how you help someone in such a place
and ask how
i could be thought forgotten
if i have been found now