Corpseflower

It turns out that I have drawn the very sky
down and wear it like a bodybag made
of gas, my corpse for now holding the shape
of a life but not the animation. There is no
stench. Nor is there a sense of decomposition,
for who remembers that I was here at all;
never mind what I was like before this?
The world must go on and I must not

see it, hear it, touch it, taste it, smell it.
What other senses am I missing now
that I never missed before? I breathe
my bodybag in deeply and expel it shallower
until all breathing ceases, except it doesn't –
Only mine. Only now. Only nothing.