"Maggots"

By Anna Harberger

 

three quarters of the hour in dust, 

in cool howls of circular air

 

drag my limp and colorless feet

until i lay down to rot.

 

when i get there

i’ll spend my fragile minutes burying my head

in the matted, cobalt terry cloth…

 

with every inhale, 

i still taste nicotine, salt water, dust.