by Nicholas Holt Jason Leung Someone once said that we write poetry because we die before we get to play with our own ashes. That person was me, just now, and I said it because there are lots of fun things that I would do with my ashes: like, “hello barista, I like your cool beret, and that’s a nice mustache too, say, would you mind making me a latte with my own space grey espresso grounds? Just scoop it from this urn, here,” and if I had that urn, I’d find a kid from Florida