The tender anxieties settle

on the outside like a husk.
 
I went off buspirone to feel it—
the slow give of the body
toward the soil.

A man on Youtube mows
an abandoned lot.

Underneath: cicada, seed, circumstance,
the patient who wait
their years to climb up, sing,
and leave a husk on the bark.

I can’t remember anything

that’s happened to me.

I will follow you
after I am dead, you know.

Everything rots and grows
and is given back.

The weather now,
and then the passing of it.