Where Am I?

Words are spilling from your mouth
like grain from the hopper.
I’m too far gone to catch any of it,
and if I try, the syllables slip through my fingers.
They say a silo is a dangerous place,
not as dangerous as a cesspool, but
all that silage in an iron-bound drum,
with soft specks flicking through the empty spaces
where a man’s body would fit,
almost leisurely.
And if a spark catches those drifting specks, well,
how many blocks have been flattened by grain explosions?
A hundred? More? Are you still talking?
There isn’t a word yet said
that can dig a corpse from a silo.

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