Conned Swerve

Flesh ends as ash,
But the ash floats
On to new lives
Or waits in dirt,

One year’s thin line
Pressed with the rest,
Washed or brushed out
At the next rise.

Flesh rests when dust,
If not when flesh,
While all the rest
Of what you were

Flies off as us—
Words, too: flesh; dust.
But where’d you go?
How could you go?