His records have been erased
But are still in the recycle bin.

His nose is now cotton-balled,
To avoid ants in neural paths.

His sky is now hovering  glass
Just above his closed eyelids.

He is in a process of erasure
In a bin ready to be emptied.

It is as if he had never lived
And never counted the stars

Set in the blue sky glass top
Forgetting count each time.

Now that the bin is emptied,
We need not reset his count.

All his records stand erased
Including a last finger count.

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