PLUCK wildflowers for the visit.
GRAVE stone still declaring final date.
MIDGE bites my arm. We, the living:
JUICY prey for pangs of grief.

LATER generations might miss its role, obscured by form:
SALON, early social network, proto strewer of high
GRADE untruths. Yet also: a mimetic source to spread
MIRTH, witty contagion countering human gloom.

LORRY, if suddenly coming at you, soon to
GNASH you into a wall, like angry teeth, one fell
SWOOP—don’t ask “why not a truck?”
EXIST! Evade! No time to muse on dialects.