The Stink

it's not that I mind crypt buggering like this—
the vermin rooting through all that will

only disintegrate in measurements of minutes
or geological eras, no, that I don't mind at all

let vultures plunge their bald heads beaks first
into these rotting flesh banks let them

attempt to coat all putrefaction and canker
with unctuous sprays cloying at each passing nostril

even that blight will eventually fade and the fats
from alkal alcanoates will break down like the bodies

these worn woolen jackets once housed
all traces of this stuff will vanish though

I cannot scrub the space where the missing
apostrophe should be—that eats away at me

in realtime the white space that reeks
of our current skullcaps' mephitis