Decay Lift

by John Zedolik

The smell of small death rises

            in summer from under some

            live green, gnarling to the low

            sky, from which the blue

            glory will rise to heat and

            the sun’s blinding eye, a drain

            at the zenith where all swirls into,

            even unseen far above—

            —the odor equally invisible, sheer

            fabric tainting the air, flushed from

            the body emptied, yet heavy in bone,

            fur, and organ, rotting as anchor to

            the dirt or hard surface, giving substance

            in stink to yet stirring life until,

            light as space and dry as packaged seed,

            the stench has departed and dissolved into

atmosphere, forgiving in the smells of

flower, soil, or smoke and

rushes up to that vortex to join its sibling

particles in the general going, going, fading, gone