Sometimes empty bullet casings, but usually rocks, or cheap plastic kitsch with the print worn off. And then sometimes other objects. In the deep flesh of the jungle, what coffins can we make from the matte of leaves and twigs? The ground must be good enough for what is and what isn’t a person and then again what used to be. Warm forms that some of the time will walk upright and then some of the time lie down and rest, now some of the time spent lying down and then some of the time being dirt. When we dig the holes, sometimes we find parts that used to be covered in skin but now are part of the ground. We roll the whites between our palms like any other piece in the way. Whether they came out of a face or a finger they are only shapes now and you cannot call that a man. The man is the beast that grunts and sweats and digs until the shovel stops hard, the only one that can possibly be, until he isn’t.