To be eaten. 

To have the hands 

that have mediated your way through the world 

be involuntarily decomposed, 

to have the bodily imperfections 

you have not gone one day without thinking about 

stuck in teeth 

for later toothpick-removal. 

To have the soft gray matter of your mind 

broken apart in stomach acid. 

Every thought you’ve cherished and forgotten, 

every lustful look and shameful aversion, 

aspiration and fear 

move through the stages of digestion 

and pass. 

To be passed, 

as you are, 

as paste. 

To have the universe, 

for all it’s worth, 

as has existed only through your eyes, 

be burped out, 

stinking cartoonish vapors rising 

before another set of eyes 

with their own understanding of it all, 

and dissipate.