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| Photo courtesy of memorialecosystems.com |
When I dearly depart from this vain earth –
just wrap my body in a burlap sack,
take me to the crook of the woods,
release to the subsoil to which I belong
In preparation for this crucial mass –
float some words piped ‘cross the brown room,
pontificated for a clearer haze,
from minor chords with frenetic pace
If a priest is sent to read last rites –
confer with them a book of spite,
with god-formed brows and distorted limbs,
frozen ghosts with a sweltering eye
Solicit some cold black witticisms,
cackling cracked-smiled sly rejoinders,
flowing clean – anew from a spirit birth,
raised out of reach in proclamations
Close with prayer and questionnaires,
processions shown aground in shadowed
vignettes,
passage of the sack, one hand to another,
dampening in its hallowed retreat
MM 1/17
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