A Few Doors Down, the Three Words


These houses are either
empty or sad, constantly
changing hands -
in the dusty keep
of the ages, the dark tunnels
of heat and mouse steps,
voices come and go
via those places and back
where funerals are less eager
to offer rides and pastries.

a body transparent
a body on a table
a body of ash and water
a table set for three
a body full of holes
with a finger trapped
in a book to mark the place
a body sewn to the finger
caught in the book
of estates and tailors

A gold crown
in a nearby town
belongs only to the dentist.

The rain is patient this year
April is patient,
the lilacs that live
two hundred years
the scrub oak
the generations of poppies
on the hill scattered,
are all patient.
So many to clothe
this year in grass and seedlings,
so many Armageddons to attend.

Why is it that people cry
over corpses and why is it
they do not cry about death?
You've seen one of us die,
you've seen them all.
No one goes there to visit the dead.
No one goes there to cry
or whisper or clasp.
They go there to wonder
about themselves
with mouse steps,
side-stepping in the aisles
careful not to bunch up
or bump into one another.
Their faces tell lies and more lies.
No one thinks they'll get caught.

Her son dressed as honestly
as he'd been raised
in a crisp white shirt
each button a little lock.
Her husband looked gray
as the mourners snuck in and out,
his patience exhausted.
He closed the door himself
and shut off the lights.
We were counterweights
that is all he had to say.



The Declining Day

By (the Token of) Time (through the ages),
Verily Man is in loss,
Except such as have Faith, and do righteous deeds,
and (join together) in the mutual teaching of Truth,
and of Patience and Constancy.