A Wake
This might be said about the death
of anyone: that its quick memory springs
from live mouths around a table
that someone is always looking at you
when you bring it up, your tone
fore-fashioned, grave --
an entourage frail as the body itself nods,
and then a matter of drinking and eating
and for some, fucking. Because
when bodies grow cold, the spirit rises
and swoops
and while the finally sedate fall
into flimsy gravity
others swivel and clutch.
They insist on it.
Trulyfool
Posted over on his site Light at the end of the Tether
Listed as #65 over on Magpie Tales 67
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